


it glitters; it breaks

by resuerre



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Forced Orgasm, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Lactation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Overstimulation, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-04-29 02:18:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14462865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resuerre/pseuds/resuerre
Summary: 4: Akashi is curled around several of the cushions, fast asleep to the near-mechanical drone of the lady poised for a newsreel. Nijimura turns the TV off, and slips the remote back onto the coffee table, near the bowl of untouched pork congee.He is gentle when he touches Akashi’s cheek with the back of his hand.(or the things that happen(ed) to Akashi before and after Nijimura, for a lack of a better word, saves him.// alpha & omega; more comfort than hurt, but it's there)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Clandestine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4857833) by [Golden_maple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Golden_maple/pseuds/Golden_maple). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **extreme warnings:** alpha/beta/omega; underage prostitution, forced orgasm, forced mating cycle, drug use, non-consensual sexual acts, borderline mind break, suicide attempt/mention
> 
>  **plot warnings:** nonexistent government, not typical ABO societal structure, heat cycles are like periods (a bitch), a social hierarchy that is referenced but not explained, vague age differences between different characters, original plot characters with no names, don't take this seriously, i'm just a thirsty piece of shit, unrealistic approach to trauma recovery, I say it could be fluff, but I also could be wrong, vulgar language.
> 
>  **chapter warnings:** All hurt, no comfort, a summary of Akashi's time in the institution; forced orgasm/usage of toys/teetering mind break, mention of suicide
> 
> \--
> 
> Much thanks to Golden_Maple for allowing me to pick up their clandestine story! There's a bit of the setting from Sweet Omega as well that I hope you'll forgive me for borrowing. 
> 
> As for this fic, it's a re-imagining and the byproduct of my filthy mind, so don't take it too seriously. Just take it and roll with it, please and thanks. (:3

When Akashi looks back, he’d say that the last few years of his life was a blur, a strange fever dream that he keeps having, and having. A lucid nightmare, sprinkled with fragments he scarcely remembers.

Akashi constantly stands at the edge of consciousness, memories and hauntings blending and slipping through his fingers.

In the moments in which he’s granted silence, Akashi would try to categorize it all. Pull it together in a slow way, but always something would get in the way— a craving, loneliness, a newfound pain.

And he has to hurt all over again while writing, fitting the scattered pages of his life into a messy pile.

He knows this as the prologue;

Collapsing head first into the pavement, body aching and hot, the swarm of bewildered classmates surrounding him, whispering, _gossiping._ Some of them leer.

Heavy rain batters the windows of the hospital that day. His doctor escorts him into the room where his father waits. The moment his father’s face falls into a frown was the moment Akashi’s life shatters, pulled at the seams because of a mere diagnosis.

 _I’m sorry_ , Akashi apologizes without understanding why. He can smell things now. He can place the scent of fear and the anxiety from his father. The alpha blood in him is riled and boiling.

Akashi wonders if his father would turn a violent hand on him. His only son. The only heir to the Akashi legacy and all it stands for.

He doesn’t, but he turns away when Akashi is taken.

Grabbed right outside his home, still in his uniform, ruined and reeking of rain water from the alphas who had been jealous of him, of the betas he’s surpassed.

 _Save me_ , Akashi manages to think as the world he knew, the home he’s lived in, the prestigious school he’s gone to, folds in over itself, fading into the darkness as a rag smothers his face.

Vaguely, he makes out the scratch of a ziptie fastening his wrists and legs together, the slam of a car door and the suffocating smell of old rubber.

He does not cry, even as his body ignites itself on fire, a swallowing inferno that eats all his senses raw.

After what seemed like hours, Akashi startles when the car stops. A moment of silence, he hears nothing around him. Suddenly, fresh air.

“Wake up, _Akashi-sama_ , we’re here.”

Rough hands on his arms, pulling and bruising. Two, three men. Jeering, laughing.

Akashi hisses at the pain lancing up his arm, at the fire under his skin. He does not complain.

 

 

 

Akashi regains consciousness in a small room, sparse with metallic furniture and a painting of the sea on the wall. On the table is a vase holding a single stem of a white lilac.

He is drowsy, his body is wired. He finds that he’s still bound, hands tied to both sides of the bed. The chains don’t budge.

“Are you feeling all right?” asks a voice, and Akashi sees a woman a little bit older than his mother. _Mother_ , as he’ll come to call her, gives him a sympathetic smile as she walks in from the door. The hallway behind her is dim, lit with an eerie green light. “You’ve been out for a while.”

Akashi watches her set something on the nearby table, a tray with a bowl. His tongue feels like sand in his mouth, and he swallows several times. He can’t breathe, his voice is dry. “I… where is this?”

He can’t talk properly, either.

“I’m not so sure myself either, and I’ve been here for a very long time,” she says conversationally. Mother picks up the bowl; pork congee, it’s steaming. “You should eat. You need all the energy you can get. I made it myself, see.”

Akashi flexes his fingers and winces. He doesn’t have the strength or an idea on how to get out of these cuffs. She watches him with a quirk of her eyebrow, some amusement in her eyes. She waits for him to give up.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she laughs, and it makes him feel better about his situation, slightly. “It’s good, trust me. Do you want to try it?”

There are dark lines and eyebags formed under Mother’s eyes. She’s not attractive, but plain with an unassuming blouse and a long black skirt. Mother sits at his bedside, and helps him prop his upper half with the pillows on his bed.

His stomach growls.

Akashi hasn’t eaten since breakfast. His heat has consumed all the energy and appetite he’s had, and the strangers at school decided he would look better with his food in his face for lunch instead.

After a moment, Akashi reluctantly opens his mouth, accepting the soup, and swallowing both it and his pride in a quiet gulp.

“Good, good,” she says with a smile, humming in the same tune as the air conditioner pouring in from the vents.

 

 

 

Beneath his skin, there’s a constant rush of something coursing in his blood. Akashi wonders if the soup has been laced with drugs, or if it was the side effects of his heat.

As much as he refuses to accept it, it’s the latter. Akashi curls in on the bed as much as he’s allowed to; cold despite his feverish body, hot even with the cool bed sheets and rumble of sterile air from above. He throws himself around, trying to itch at _something_ bone deep. He takes large, gulping breaths of air.

They strip him of his clothes.

Rather, Mother does it. She was ordered to, but she does it with a gentle precision, all the while looking at him with a gaze so tender, full of pity.

Akashi wears nothing but a draping hospital gown, tied loosely on the side. His father would be saturated with anger if he saw him, inappropriately dressed, and taken down the halls by the cuffs on his wrists.

 _Father isn’t coming_ , he realizes, after he’s examined thoroughly with prying hands and cold, metal tools, prodding into places too deep.

_Father sent me here._

By the third day, Akashi figures he knows how the days would go: he’ll eat and drink, urinate, defecate, bathe, sleep to a strict schedule.

His body is scrubbed down, everything is flushed; every nerve is on fire, but his insides are clean. It doesn’t feel like his own skin anymore.

Strapped to his bed, the footsteps coming to his room were not Mother’s. When he opens his eyes, all he sees is a blur of white and the blinding shine of lights.

“Shall we begin your training, Seijuurou-kun?”

 

 

 

Akashi is put under the spotlight with figures of people bowing over him as his audience. White masks, cold voices, he can’t see their eyes beyond the shadows.

White, hot heat. He shudders, confused when a hand lifts his hospital gown, unraveling the knot at its side.

Akashi jerks away from the hand lifting his cock, the firm grip is unrelenting as cool liquid covers his length. The hand moves, up and down, forcing him into a state where everything is hot, _so hot,_ sensitive, it hurts. He realizes what they’re doing to him.

Akashi shakes his head furiously, tears rimming his eyes, “I don’t want—”

“It doesn’t matter,” they say, quietly, impersonal. And it’s a cold slap in the face. Nothing he says, nothing he asks for, will matter.

White gloves pinch, prod, and knead. He doesn’t understand— _why_.

Akashi screams, he kicks, he fights.

Fingers rub against him harshly, pulling his nipples until they’re swollen and oozing.

 _Father, send someone, anyone, come_ , _please—_ different hands in different places, a hand on his cock, a thumb on the tip.

 _I don’t want this, mother, help me—_ three fingers inside him, thrusting and curling. It’s wet. It’s too much, not enough. Akashi buckles, body shaking, convulsing with each thread of pain blurred pleasure. The restraints on his wrists cut shallow wounds.

He prays to god knowing god won’t answer.

He moans, he whimpers, he comes.

Everything that was _Akashi Seijuurou_ ended by the third day.

From the next day onward, he stops counting.

 

 

 

He says nothing, only listens.

Mother talks about the world she knew. She was a housewife with three kids, the youngest one was five, the oldest was twelve. They’d go to school, holding each other’s hands, like a mother duck leading her ducklings.

Mother is an excellent cook. She made her children bentos, sneak mashed carrots into the hamburgers. She actually tricked them into eating pickled ginger once by saying it was candied daikon. Her children was none the wiser. Except the oldest, he always had a nose for these things.

“I miss them,” she says, holding Akashi’s hand. Her graying, black hair tilts into her face and hides her tears. Mother cries a lot, doesn’t she. But Akashi understands, he misses his mother too.

Akashi returns her grip with a gentle squeeze of his own.

 

 

 

“Today onwards, we’ll work with your sensitivity,” the doctor says, as he slides something tight and restricting to the base of his cock and gives his balls a squeeze.

Pain and pleasure like Akashi’s never known; body torn as tendrils coil under his skin. He screams for release now, doesn’t know how to talk otherwise.

 _Please, please, please_ like a prayer to a god who won’t listen.

 

 

 

“I’ve long stopped being fertile,” she says, when Akashi looks at her with hollow, red eyes. A silent demand to know _why me, not you?_

She says nothing more, but Akashi knows that they’ve ruined her. Pumped a myriad of cheap drugs that have set her reproductive organs into fire and ice.

Mother has three children—had three children. _She’s happy,_ she says. Akashi wants to ask, _is? Or was?_

The hand on his head pets him. “They will make a successful suppressant and you’ll be discharged soon. Everything will go back to the way it was.”

_Is that what they said to you too? When you were stripped of your life, your children?_

Akashi closes his eyes, his throat is parched. The truth they both know is far too cruel.

 

 

 

Akashi knows he’s meant to hear what they’re doing to the others in the next room.

They’re not so subtle, what with the _Prepare clitoris stimulation_ , _forced lactation a success._

Akashi is met with blood curdling screams throughout the day. They echo through the night.

He wants to sleep, just sleep his fever away, sleep until the masked men come for him again, but he can’t when they start again with their mechanical clicks, the humming. Oh god, the _humming_ , Akashi closes his eyes, tries to ignore the begging of _Please let me go home, stop, stop, I can’t— I’m coming, no more— I don’t want— I want to go home—_

It’s maddening.

Akashi wants to shout at her, tell her to shut up, stop crying, _no one is coming to save you._

The screams belong to a young girl, Akashi belatedly realizes. He can’t stomach the porridge that Mother feeds him.

 _Don’t listen, she’ll be gone soon,_ Mother says, as he dry heaves into a napkin. She rubs circles into his back. Nothing comes out, of course nothing does, he hasn’t eaten in days.

She pets his hair, gently, so gently, like his mother on the garden swing, except this mother cries instead of sings. _I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry_ —

He doesn’t have the strength to ask what she’s apologizing for.

 

 

 

It’s his turn again.

Stubborn, Akashi bites down his lip, quiets his moans. When they force his mouth open, he lets out nothing but silent screams and stuttered breaths. Because Akashi knows he can swallow— swallow everything they’re doing to him, and he’s been raised to be polite, omega or not, to the others resting in the rooms aligning the halls.

His resistance doesn’t please the doctor. Akashi can feel his frown despite not seeing it.

“Seijuurou-kun seems to be acting difficult today,” he says, snapping his latex gloves on and retrieving a vial.

A syringe.

“Don’t look so afraid, it’ll ease things along,” he coaxes, stroking Akashi’s weeping length with the back of his hand. An assistant holds down his head, slips a pill in his mouth, pushing it past his tongue. He chokes on the lukewarm water they pour. “Soon you won’t need these at all.”

They have a firm grip on his arm, the white skin turns red as he watches the syringe empty through the needle.

The sting lasts only a couple of minutes, and soon there’s an unbearable scratch under his skin. It’s hot, it’s so hot. Sweat beads on his forehead as Akashi shifts against his restraints, pulling his arms to itch himself.

The hands that were always on him, touching and teasing, are gone, leaving him with an ache between his legs and a desperate need to cool the heat.

“It’s taking effect, he’s began to self-lubricate,” one observes, and Akashi shudders when a finger rims his hole, swiping at the slick dripping in wet anticipation.

He feels a hand grope his balls, fondling and pulling. “The director mentioned that he wants these empty in time for tomorrow,” the doctor says. Akashi’s eyes grow wide and fearful. He lets out a pained gasp when the doctor crushes them firmly in his hand. “He’s due to be milked after all.”

One of the assistants returns with a cylinder attached to a tube. He watches helplessly as its lowered onto his cock. It’s wet and tight. Painfully so.

Akashi shakes, fighting the restraints but to no avail. No matter how hard he pulls, the leather just tears abrasively into his wrists.

“Shh, it’ll feel better,” the doctor says as he starts pumping the cylinder. The vacuum pulls on his cock, and Akashi lets out a pleasured gasp.

A vibrator is nestled under his balls, and his hole is forced open with a plastic dildo, vibrating on maximum speed, drilling relentlessly against his prostate. Akashi thrashes, bucks his hips to get away, but they hold him down.

Makes him, swallow, and swallow.

He cries, breaking his silence, choking in the mixture of his own spit and the metal tang from his bloodied, swollen lips. He thrusts upwards, weakly into the grip on his cock, a silent plea to come, let this madness end.

Slick on the sheets under him. His body pulses in wanton pleasure when just as suddenly, the vibrator is gone, the plastic is removed.

He whines.

Heart thudding in his ears. He’s barely aware of anything around him except that he wants more, needs more, just to push him over the edge.

Hands massage him thoroughly, fingers pressing him in sensitive places, pulling at his swollen chest. Akashi whimpers when the gentle tug becomes harsher and harsher.

“Please,” he says, voice cracked and desperate. Akashi begs. _“Please_.”

Akashi lets out a sigh when the toy nudges his hole again, forcing past the lubricated ring of muscles. His eyes flutter close as his cock twitches, welcoming the intrusion, welcoming the pressure around his cock.

He’s overly sensitive, thrusting frantically to engulf the toy deeper inside his heat, against his prostate. And in a split moment, he’s pushed sharply off the edge, losing control of his body as he trembles and keens to orgasm after orgasm, with come spurting out and splashing onto his stomach.

His cock throbs painfully after each release, until he can no longer come, but it never stops.

Despite all that, Akashi’s hips thrust lethargically into the cylinder, his eyes closed, his hair a sticky, matted mess.

“Please, I can’t,” he whispers, voice raw from his screaming. But his skin still tingles, still begs for the marrow-deep itch to be sated.

Needs more, needs more, needs.

 

 

 

The noises from the other room stops. Akashi is relieved. Feels sick that he’s relieved.

Mother’s eyes are red and watery. She gives him a frail, brittle smile. _She’s gone to a better place._

Gone too is the white lilac.

Akashi is too afraid to ask where.

 

 

 

They do things to him; different things.

Nipple clamps, cock ring, prostate stimulation. Sometimes one at a time. Many times, all at once.

Everything they do is written down on record and repeated, like an innocuous science experiment, a test, and that’s what he becomes.

His screams echo in the room. There is no warmth in the speculation behind the doctor’s glasses and the dry brush of latex on his skin.

They hold him down, pressing something rubbery and fleshy to his mouth, prompting him to swallow. They’re training him to relax his throat, swallow everything even though he chokes. The next day, it’s pushing against his entrance, and hands run down his sides, coaxing him to relax. Some days, it’s both.

The size increases, day by day.

Everything hurts by the end of it.

 

 

 

“God, save me,” he manages to say aloud. Akashi’s voice is gone, throat shredded from all his screaming, the crying. His cheeks are stiff from tears no one came to wipe.

There is an insane urge to laugh, amidst all this. Out-laugh the pleasured wails from the others reverberating down the hallways.

Someone stands in the shadows of his room, where his lone lamp light is shy of reaching. Akashi beckons the stranger closer with a curious glance. As he walks, the light outlines cheekbones, and a deep scowl.

 _God doesn’t exist_ , the figure spits. Akashi strains his neck to look at this new stranger. It isn’t Mother, or the doctor.

It’s him. Red hair, sharp, cat eyes. He looks down at himself with an air of regal authority, as the Akashi Seijuurou he used to be. Scowling, disgusted.

_Save yourself._

 

 

 

Akashi watches as they lift his frail arm; a long syringe needle sinks and he feels the too familiar sting. There are small, angry marks peppering his skin. Idly, he wonders why they don’t pierce the same hole twice.

They let him lie down. They leave him alone.

They don’t see the syringe curled weakly in his palm.

He lets the flare of the extra dose envelope him. Breathes against the pain.

It pulls him underwater. It pulls him under.

Here, there is nothing. Here, he can close his eyes and rest, listening to the watery sound of oxygen entering and funneling in his lungs. One, two, in. One, two, out.

In, out, in out— wet sloshing sounds. Cold, plastic pushes into him, stretching and tearing him in ways he can’t heal.

One, two, breathe, and soon he’ll stop.

It’ll be done.

The water around him crushes his lungs; fills it.

An empty syringe rolls off the bed and onto the floor.

 

 

 

Akashi falls into a long, suffering darkness. Fragmented dreams await him when he hits the bottom.

An assembly hall. Faceless students, gazing at him with a mixture of awe, adoration, jealousy. He speaks with an air of authority.

His father appraising the trophy he’s won. His expression is stoic, though Akashi swears the hard lines of his face has the tiniest tilt of a smile at a job well done.

An elegant English garden of trimmed roses. His mother singing lullabies as he lays on her lap, closing his eyes to the warm sunshine and her sweet voice.

A maid, on her knees to match his height, tears spilling onto her cheeks. _I’m sorry, Seijuurou-kun,_ she says. Akashi wonders if she’s sick again, and he holds her hand with a small, soft, reassuring grip. _Your mother’s gone to a better place._

To a better place.

To a deafening silence.

Faintly, he hears Mother cry.

Mother.

_I can’t wait to see you soon._

 

 

 

His father is patiently waiting for him when he wakes, hands steepled and elbows resting on the edge of the table.

Mother sits next to him. She has a parasol with her as she always does. Seijuurou is just about to mention that they’re indoors, and it’s silly to have a parasol indoors. He feels the soft grass graze the underside of his feet.

They’re sitting outside in the garden. Ah. Makes sense.

“The first lesson of being an Akashi, is—” Father begins, until Mother puts down her foot figuratively and literally, interrupts him with a cutting gaze _._

“Masaomi-kun, Seijuurou is upset, he doesn’t need your nonsensical, tyrannical babblings.”

He’s upset. Yes, right, he lost in a match because he couldn’t control Yukimaru well enough. Seijuurou is upset.

“You have to teach him these things from a young age. Experiencing defeat is important to molding how he’ll handle future victories,” Father continues. The creases on his forehead are gone. He looks younger, happier. His lips form a loose, smile as he turns his gaze on Seijuurou.

This isn’t a dream, rather a memory.

“There are times when we must bow and accept our loss,” he says despite Mother’s glare. “Tuck your chin in, lay down your pride for only a moment. Wait. There will be an opportune time for your revenge.”

“Even if it’s against family? Even if it's you?” Akashi asks, voice hoarse, lips bloodied, swollen.

 _Even if it’s against family,_ his father’s distant, dull eyes say, as he lets the curtains fall, cloaking the mansion window. Shunning him. _Especially if it’s me._

Akashi, against his better judgement, wakes up.

 

 

 

A phoenix dies in fire, rises in fire, dies in fire, rises again. Born to live, lived to die, died to reborn.

Dies in fire, rises in fire, dies, rises.

 

 

 

Akashi is changed from one hand to another. The men and women he’s been sent to starts to morph, unimpressionable, temporary people. The whispers, the faces, the pleasured moans all begin to sound one and the same.

A politician is the most prevalent of them all; he remembers his girth and grandeur among the rest of the crowd. Akashi licks his shoes, licks elsewhere and anywhere he’s told.

Mother’s warm hand against his own is his anchor in the midst of this routine. She is the point in which the day begins and another ends.

 

 

 

Having captured the politician’s interest, he leaves but not without consequences. Mother gives her blessings, her last breath, and a quiet plea for him to live in her stead. He does.

Akashi is adorned in expensive clothes and rare jewels, treated like a king. Other omegas tend to him. They feed him, clothe him, bathe him. It’s the closest thing to the life he used to have, except now, he wears a sparkling gold collar that jingles every time he falls to his knees.

Akashi lives; he lives.

Despite the rope burns digging into his skin, despite the red, purple flowers blooming against his ribcage, despite the handprints peppering his backside.

He lives.

 

 

 

Akashi becomes a gift.

The collar is replaced by a bow, his wrists decorated with deep, purple bruises the color of dark amethyst. Even when they fade, he hears the sharp screech of metal and feels the phantom scrape of leather.  

The next man is a doctor, fascinated with how much Akashi can bear until exhaustion gives out. Day by day, Akashi is surrounded by medical books, capsules, syringes, vials, and spends most of his time tied down to a chair. Until one day, he isn’t.

Akashi fights.

He barely emerges victorious, but the aftermath makes his hands shake from a stain he can’t wash.

No one knows, no one has to know.

 

 

 

Whoever receives Akashi next becomes afraid of him, of the potential in his too sharp, calculating mind, because Akashi is determined to live, _despite._

He is turned over to an institution, much similar to the one years past.

Akashi is washed and cleansed every day. Apparently, he needs more training; it’s not enough, never enough. Despite what they do to him, he protects the flicker of rebellion, guarding it with scorched fingers.

Every other day, he receives a shot in his arm, just to keep him from barely breaking through the surface.

Akashi swirls in a medicated haze between a sedative and stimulant.

In the mornings, they dig at old wounds, rework the binding around his hands. At night, they shove him off and over the edge, the blinding observatory light hanging like a noose around his sanity.

Not awake enough to register the overflowing pain and pleasure, sound asleep when he’s thrown onto a bare mattress, cold, alone, naked, and finished for the day.

Akashi has gotten better at swallowing his pride, among many other things.

He still screams however. He cries.

As the remnants of his clarity slip away before the next day’s round of exercise, he recites; _I’ll live, I’ll live._

 

 

 

Routine breaks like the sudden splash of a lifevest against the still water he’s held under. It’s there, it’s vibrant, Akashi stares at it. Confused.

They adorn him with a jewel. _You’re going to a better place now,_ someone says, petting back his hair, and Akashi’s memory flickers between the maid’s whisper in his ear and Mother’s thin smile.

They robe him in a white yukata with a spider lily print chasing him at his heels.

A syringe dips into the crease of his arm. A blindfold carefully fastens over his eyes.

He waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pretty sure some would say: hm, so that's where you've been all this time.  
> indeed.  
> let's... let's not talk about it.
> 
> See you soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **plot warnings (addition):** this is a vague Japan, no mentions of name, work, jobs, etc. it's gone vague, don't ask questions, let's just enjoy. ; )
> 
>  **chapter warnings:** dehumanization of omegas, omega auctions, forced orgasm/usage of toys/teetering mind break, vulgar language, you don't have to care about bg characters (yet), Nijimura's alpha dick and imagination, Nijimura is too good, I'd let him punch me in the face (with kisses), can you tell for every teaspoon of hurt there will be a gallon of comfort?, yes.
> 
> \---
> 
> Hi.
> 
> It occurred to me that 1) I'm impatient. 2) I just really want Nijimura to get the comforting going on. 3) I'm thirsty. (not new.) and 4) if I was another reader I would want the nijiaka comfort to get going, so here we are.
> 
> So here it is. (sort of.) Please enjoy~

Written in gold ink, Kimura Hiroki.

He takes the empty checkbook, fanning through the countless pages and pages. It reeks of dirty money, but it’s _a lot_ of money. Like pearls thrown before swines, he thinks, frowning. “This again? At least change the god awful name.”

“Can’t do,” the boss says, tipping back in his cushy office chair. Nijimura flips through the checkbook again. As if doing so would give him a cooler name, something that sounds like a samurai in his edo-period prime. “Patrons from previous venues can recognize and place you. It’s not the most fanciful names, but work with it. It hardly matters. People mind their business.”

“Rich assholes don’t, unfortunately.”

Sighing, he slides the book into his breast pocket, where he has a glock strapped to a vest holster. Not like he ever uses it, he’s more of a knife and dagger kind of guy. “And the budget?”

“300 million.” The boss folds his hands together, resting his chin on it. “Be more liberal this time; the more, the better. The center’s last test batch incapacitated half their patients. It’ll be another six months before those omegas recover, so they’re desperate for new blood. Do whatever you want after you nab five.”

 _Have fun, you stick in the mud,_ the boss doesn’t say.

 _Get yourself another dog to do their dirty work_ , Nijimura almost barks. But he can’t have himself getting written up for another tongue-in-cheek remark.

God knows how many he’s already had.

 

 

 

Nijimura steps out of the black limousine, hair slicked back with gel. He wears a three piece suit, tailored specifically to accentuate the lines of his body.

Some of his not-so-helpful coworkers say that he looks the part of a bourgeois douchebag. Others advise that he should stop puckering that upper lip, makes him look like a thug. _And fix your tie, Nijimura-senpai_ , the dresser says with a disapproving stare.

Word travels fast in base, and everyone complains about how lucky he is to spend 300 million at his leisure. Hearing that doesn’t make him feel any better. It just deepens the scowl on his face, furrows the lines on his forehead.

At the entrance of the casino, Nijimura greets the host of the event, bores the man with formalities and a handshake. After the chore, Nijimura walks away to mingle with the rest of society’s richest alphas.

If Nijimura budgets and spends wisely, he could try his luck at the slot machines, but Lady Luck has hardly been kind to him. Instead, he grabs several slices of cheeses and crackers, and makes himself scarce under the draping red curtains hanging from the stone pillars.

This entire place feels posh, European.

Dimly lit candles give off a rich, golden glow from their mount on the marble. Roman heads and strange bent pieces of metal are on display at strategic positions, placed to make venue attendees think and contemplate about the significance of scrap metal in their glamorous lives.

Classy jazz plays in the bar room, poorly masking the sounds of sex from the private booths.

Nijimura feels that maybe cheese and crackers wasn’t a good idea. Not when there’s a pungent mixture of sugar and musk in the air.

Two hours spent in the pheromone infused venue and Nijimura notes that some of the guests have already discarded their pretentious, social graces. Those with weak wills succumb to the omegas skirting about, which is the venue’s scheme to loosen an alpha’s wallet.

Fortunately, Nijimura is renowned in his line of work to possess the determination and will of a beast. But, he isn’t entirely immune to how overwhelming it all is.

Loosening his tie, just a bit, he turns his eyes away from the booths. He’s here for a reason, and Nijimura buckles up and cracks down with his business smile. He fetches himself a glass of wine, if only just for show.

Nijimura knows a thing or two about the toy industry, so he undoes his furrowed brows and effortlessly joins several alphas as they prattle about their omegas and homely affairs.

 

 

Nijimura has a high resistance to pheromones, which makes him the perfect guy for this kind of job.

Tonight, he is Kimura Hiroki, a wealthy young heir who's invested quite a sum of money into the development of stimulation toys and omega training facilities, institutions, as they are often called.

Nijimura did his research, of course, any one of his calibre can do at least that much. But if you asked him, the idea makes him nauseous. He rather not think about it. Or talk about it.

He hates the quiet lull of running as errand boy.

For someone as brash as he chooses to be, _blending in_ is a skill nonexistent on his resume. Rather, Nijimura likes being a part of the action, blow shit up, stop some would-be villain before he gets his hands on a company’s _top secrets._ Kill someone, some people.

It’s not like Nijimura enjoys blood shed, but any adrenaline rush is better than this: being alone with 300 million yen to dispose of by the end of the night.

He feels massively out of place among some of Japan’s most influential business tycoons and lawmakers roaming the hotel. But orders from the client was to just fling money around and buy a hell lot of omegas.

The rest of the money he doesn’t use can be seen as compensation for his troubles. Drown in pleasure for the night. Do what alphas do.

Buy an omega, take it home, and fuck it senseless. Throw it away if it starts getting attached.

Which is kind of messed up and a pain to do if you asked him.

His boss has a perturbing amount of faith in him to not just take the money and run. Nijimura could renovate his apartment with it, buy some actual clothes that aren’t scraped and faded. Buy a heater for the oncoming winter. The possibilities are endless.

A sweet, gentle smell nears him, breaking him from his thoughts and sour expression. Glancing down, he sees a female omega giving him a coy look. He feels the rub of hot skin on his sleeve.

He turns her down with as much grace as he can muster without vomiting his mixture of cheese and cracker on her pretty, red dress. 

 

 

 

The stage is small, embellished and caged by oak rails, with far too many lights fixed on the main attraction. Centerstage is a black saddle with a dildo fixed to it. His past attendance in venues like this informs him that it’s a sybian.

In comparison to the show arena, the audience floor around it is wide, allowing alphas to freely roam with clickers in their hands. Every distinguished, alpha guest receives them, and they’re used to bid on the auction after an omega’s performance.

In his experience, every omega is bought off, even the ones that drip a leaking mess from every orifice. (Everyone’s got a type after all.) Nijimura’s sure there are some fake bids planted in the audience to drive the price through the roof, funnel more money into the house.

Nijimura prefers standing far from the stage, leaning over the rails from the second floor, holding a mug of beer (fuck wine, it’s nasty and wasted on him.) He fiddles with the clicker every so often, deciding to throw in a bid just for the hell of “saving” an omega from a future of sex slavery.

He hasn’t won any, of course. His half hearted sincerity just doesn’t cut it.

 _Be liberal_ , his boss reminds him and Nijimura growls.

There’s been at least eight omegas thus far, and Nijimura cringes at every one of them.

Not that he was turned off by their alluring scent, or their dripping and inviting holes. (Actually the opposite.) But it was that they were plunged on the machine and mercilessly played with until they were forced to orgasm.

The omegas brought on stage wail in pleasure; some cry too, but ultimately they’re stripped of their humanity, pinned like specimens for the leering eyes of collectors.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” someone near him asks. Nijimura glances at him; the man is tall and lanky with long black hair tucked behind his ears. He looks like he’s trying to communicate, Nijimura ignores him.

He just looks back at the dark-skinned woman who has her hips held down with strong hands. She’s screaming; that’s all they’ve been doing lately, and Nijimura sips his beer. It’s gone disgustingly warm.

The man continues, his voice gentle and maybe twisted. “Makes you wanna buy them afterwards. Test things on them.”

Nijimura decides to take a swig of his drink despite the temperature, planting the near-empty glass of beer on the surface of the wide railing. On stage, they haul her off the sybian and spread her legs. Everywhere is oozing; she smiles coyly despite her everything being exposed.

The announcer’s voice declares the starting bid at 2 million.

“I’d give her a shot,” Nijimura quips.

“Someone will buy her,” the stranger says with an air of finality, teal eyes gleaming.

Despite what he says, Nijimura does not press the clicker.

 

 

 

“Kazuya Sato,” the man says after the auction is over, extending his hand. Nijimura looks at it with a quirked brow, but takes it, shaking firmly. This man smells like nothing but expensive cologne. Smells like a jerk. Nijimura knows it.

“Kimura Hiroki,” Njimura says at length; he hasn’t introduced himself enough to have the name memorized.

Lazy, teal eyes crease into an amused look; they stand together in silence, considering one another. Nijimura returns the stare for as long as Kazuya meets it, sizing him up. They’re about the same height; Kazuya is taller, only because Nijimura slouches.

Nijimura resists calling him a greasy, half bent noodle.

“I’ll excuse myself for now,” Kazuya says, and stalks off, long limbs swaying with impeccable grace.

 

 

 

Nijimura wins an auction at 10 million yen. _She’s a cheap bitch anyways_ , says a drunk alpha who decides to take a stab at him, and Nijimura could probably clock the guy out without so much a “hello.” He decides not to make a scene, the drunk’s being a sore loser anyways.

A staff member comes to him, holding a silver tray with a keycard perched on top of a velvet cushion. Nijimura politely declines.

“Please send her to my house instead,” Nijimura says, offering a card with a decoy address etched on it. A recovery team is posted there to intercept his purchases.

_Purchases._

It sounds wrong to call omegas that; they were all humans up to a point. But that’s what this entire night is about. Purchases. Shuffling money around.

Still, Nijimura doesn't know why or how anyone could take pleasure in listening to someone scream for minutes on end.

 

 

 

Nijimura comes to a (not so) shocking conclusion that the house has quite the stock. He’s lost count of how many omegas there were. Had been.

He follows orders down to a T, winning several (or a lot) of auctions. The cheapest being five hundred thousand (it was an older omega), and the most expensive being 50 million. He sends them all “home” to be collected and rerouted to a medical facility.

It’s been a discomfort all night.

Nijimura really wants to go home, rinse the gel from his hair, tear off his expensive disguise and dive right into bed. Sleep like the dead for the next few days, ignore his boss for more jobs, more errands to run.

He has 30 million yen left. It sounds like a good idea to waste the rest on some good booze and call it a night.

For the waning hours before midnight, he sits in a plush chair from a private viewing room.

After his encounter with Kazuya and the raging drunk, somewhere quiet and isolated was preferred. And admittedly, it was getting harder to hide his raging erection.

Sure, there’s some pleasure in watching an omega writhe and squirm as their holes are mercilessly played with. But it looks painful, leather cuffs binding their wrists, vibrators held up to their clit or cock for the unnecessary, additional over-stimulation.

Nijimura is an old fashioned guy, pleasure to him is pleasuring his partner, sweet and gentle—wait, wait, what is he saying, he's not taking any one of these omegas home.

He’s been here for nearly six hours. It’s not a surprise if he’s slowly losing his mind.

Growling, Nijimura readjusts in his chair, feeling awkward at how expensive it felt. Such commodities were not for him, he preferred the hard desks at headquarters, the stiff metal seats to high-end velvet that's currently being ruined under his hard grip.

Nijimura decides to shed his jacket, feeling the stuffiness of wearing so many layers in such a confined room. He’s tempted to undo his buckle, relieve himself of the tent in his trousers, but he decides against it.

With nothing else to look at, Nijimura observes the omega trying to jump away from the onslaught of vibrators. The betas on stage hold the omega down, grabbing a fistful of hair as they force a dildo into his mouth.

To demonstrate his no-gag reflex, probably.

Nijimura shifts his legs. He feels in some ways, disgusted. In so many other ways, aroused. But it's not in his blood or principle to get off with watching omegas impale themselves desperately on a machine, their slick flowing with each thrust.

As products of the institution, they’ve been groomed beyond saving, having been taken, broken, auctioned.

If it was up to him, Nijimura would have punched the host square in the jaw at first sight. This kind of business is disgusting. Legal, but still disgusting, benefitting only the richest alphas in society while targeting the lowest of omegas.

The plasma screen in front of him switches from the face of the omega to the announcer. The auction begins, Nijimura decides to pass on it.

He grabs himself another glass of water from the small bar in the back of the room. Nijimura returns to his seat as another show begins.

It’s all the same old gig anyways.

"Welcome, welcome to a very special auction of the night,” the masked beta says, with a grandiose flair of his arms. “We hope you haven’t spent all that you had, for we have a beautiful and exquisite omega, one that’s rarer than any that have graced our stage this year.”

Nijimura raises a brow, intrigued.

Unlike the countless others, this one is being pulled on stage, head bowed. Lethargic, blindfolded, drugged. The house never drugged their omegas.

“He’s a rarity in his own class, a late bloomer with a regal air,” the man continues. Something in Nijimura’s chest thuds as he watches a beta pull away the blindfold. Ruby eyes flutter open, hazy, enrapturing; he’s seen those eyes before, the same brush of fire-red hair.

A beta tips the omega’s head upwards, pouring liquid from a small glass past his cracked lips.

"We'll ask for you to forgive us; we are merely giving our main star a stimulant so that you may fully experience how lustful he can be. He’s been trained to withstand even the harshest of an alphas’ fantasies."

The omega coughs and gasps, grasping his consciousness. His slim body shakes with effort as he’s lowered onto the sybian, taking in everything without so much a cry. His feet doesn’t reach the floor, and with the way the dildo is position, Nijimura knows that it’s pushing violently against his prostate, yet the only indication of his discomfort was a jerk in his bindings.

“Presenting to you, the omega of the house tonight, Akashi Seijuurou." With that, the motor is turned on, thrusting upwards violently and that’s when his silence breaks.

 _Akashi_ , Nijimura thinks, stomach flipping. _(“You of all people should understand, don’t you?”)_

"Wait, no—" Akashi's voice crackle in his room. A not-so pleasant reminder that Nijimura has surround sound in his room and he isn’t allowed to leave until it’s finished. "It's too strong— _ah—”_

Akashi’s voice is jilted, a gasp ripping through his words, the rest becomes a muffled moan. He bites down on his lips, tears pooling from his eyes; Akashi whimpers helplessly at the overwhelming pressure inside him, as the motor not only vibrates but rocks into him frantically.

The initial shock dies down and becomes something like a warm thrum in Nijimura’s gut. He’d have to lie to say that his cock didn't feel a throb then. There’s something about this omega’s silky voice being maimed and broken with mind-numbing pleasure; it’s some ways more satisfying than the lustful moans from the previous omegas.

He stands from his seat and turns his back away from the screen and window overlooking the stage.

The institution drugged him with a heat-inducing or a strong aphrodisiac of some kind. It’s the first he’s seen a drugged omega perform. It means he hasn't broken enough to willingly swallow a cock in his hole; an omega with a prestigious upbringing has more pride than one duped from the streets.

An omega that will bend far but not break.

(An omega that is _Akashi_.)

He has questions, but Nijimura had always been good at never asking them.

He paces the room, patiently waiting for the show to be over. An average omega will last about three minutes of intense stimulation. Looking at his (borrowed) Rolex, it’s been more than five minutes of muffled groans and breathless gasps. At least, this one isn’t screaming bloody murder.

A glance at the screen and Nijimura sees a ring tightly squeezing the base of Akashi’s cock, flushed dark red from denial and leaking precome. He is furiously shaking his head, chest heaving with sobs as his nipples are swollen and clamped with alligator clips.

“It hurts,” he cries, voice quiet, pitched high.

Nijimura’s nails dig into the palms of his hands.

He feels sick.

 

 

 

200 million.

That’s how much the bid for _Akashi Seijuurou_ went for, and it was obvious he wasn’t the only one after him.

In the end, Nijimura pulls forward and wins the auction in the last second.

A staff member comes to him, holding a silver tray with a keycard perched on top of a velvet cushion.

Nijimura considers it, remembering Akashi’s tear-stained face and his swollen lips; how his body arched and writhed while a beta fucked him with a dildo too large for his body, how his lewd hole pushed out copious amounts of slick with every thrust.

This time, Nijimura takes the keycard.

 

 

 

On his way to the suite, he makes several calls, the first and foremost, being to the boss.

Predictably, he gets scolded. That isn’t new.

Nijimura dismisses his worries; _I’ll work around it, you know I always do. You’ve trusted me this far, why not a bit more?_

Nijimura finishes his long strings of calls with a well-practiced _thank you_ , and slips the phone into his pocket. He turns a corner and a familiar face comes to life from the wallpaper like he was expecting him.

Nijimura scowls. He really wants to _not_ see his face right now.

“200 million. You’ve gone quite the lengths to have this one,” Kazuya purrs, arms folded, regarding Nijimura with a tilt in his lips. He doesn’t look _too_ bent out of shape, so Nijimura knows this guy at least, isn’t a sore loser. Definitely not the guy he’s been one-upping with ten million each turn of the second.

Nijimura elects to say nothing. He walks briskly past this man who probably has an obsession with stalking him.

“It’s a shame though,” Kazuya continues, voice lowering into an ominous hum. Nijimura slows mid-step. “I would’ve loved to have him. Unlike some _mutt_ , I have the money to care for him. You’ll break him in half like the brute you are.”

 _That_ irritates him, and Nijimura whips around against his better judgement. The man has his back turned on him, and _that_ pisses him off too. Kazuya walks off, a hand in his pocket, and another waving in the air.

“When you’re done with him, hand him over. Ta~”

Nijimura thinks about saying something akin to— _not in a million years_ and _fuck off—_ but by the time he figures out what to say, Kazuya is already gone.

 

 

 

The suite is empty and large. Inviting with its warm light and earthy, extravagant colors, despite the true purpose of the room.

He hangs his jacket near the door and entertains the idea of removing his vest—but his gun straps are hiding underneath, so maybe not.

Inside the suite: a sleek sofa, a coffee table, a reading chair, a large bed near the room-high windows. There’s a view of the night life outside, ribbons of red and gold from cars weave through the streets below.

Nijimura guesses he’s on the thirtieth floor.

He stalks around the expansive room; a small kitchen with a fridge stocked with sandwiches, a bathroom, a laundry closet, a normal, empty closet. There aren’t any security cameras in here.

There’s an out of place cabinet next to the bed, and Nijimura opens it. He finds an array of equipment at his fingertips: ropes, leather whips, gags, dildos of varying sizes, glass butt plugs, pills, bottles, cock rings, lotion, all of which are presented on silver trays and red pillows.

Nijimura gently closes it, letting his hand rest on the mahogany wood.

He's not gonna wonder how many people have used it before him. Sterilized or not, that’s just disgusting.

Nijimura is about to throw himself unceremoniously on the bed, when there’s a knock. “Nijimura-sama.”

Upon opening the door, he sees several staff members. Akashi is being held by two of them; his eyes are covered. (Is it customary to blindfold omegas? He’s not sure.)

The lady in front is saying something to him, handing him a leaflet and then a small box. He takes a peek; it’s a remote with a dial. "We hope that you enjoy the additional gift due to your purchases tonight. You're welcome to check out any time tomorrow morning before eleven.”

Nijimura watches soundlessly as the staff move Akashi, or carry him, to the bed, setting him against the pillows. The way they handle him makes him seem like a frail, China doll.

“If there are any questions or requests feel free to call the front desk for assistance.” Nijimura blinks, nodding non-committed at what the lady says. “Please enjoy your stay." 

“Uhm, thanks.” He so eloquently responds. The staff bow and leave the room; the door clicks shut.

It’s only him and the omega. An omega that’s not doing anything but lying on the bed he wants to desperately sleep on.

Honestly, what else was he expecting, them to fling the omega onto the couch for the rest of the night?

“Akashi, is it?” Nijimura starts, putting the pamphlet and box down on the table nearest to him. He walks toward the bed, carefully, footsteps loud and purposeful.

He muses, more so to himself. “...How on earth did you end up here of all places?”

Nijimura hates to admit it, but upon closer inspection, Akashi is beautiful.

His hair splayed underneath the white sheets reminds Nijimura of a red blossom; his white yukata is deceptively conservative and enticing, a lily waiting for its petals to be torn. 

Only when Nijimura stands at the edge of the bed, he realizes Akashi is breathing harshly, shoulders shaking. Nijimura guesses _fear_ , and then _drugs_ as another possibility. Either way, his gaze softens, and the questions he’s had piling at the tip of his tongue, fades. There’s always another time and another day to ask.

This kid is young, too young. Slender and frail. Akashi’s wrists are tied and tucked over his chest. He’s shaking.

He’s too young to be here, Nijimura thinks with a scowl.

Nijimura presses a knee into the mattress, the creak under his weight makes Akashi flinch.

He pays no mind, just moves to free him of his bindings. With a soft grunt in lieu of an apology, he unfastens the blindfold.

Now that it’s off, Nijimura can see his eyes, deep like rubies, clouded with a haze of drugs, sedatives, something smoldering. Nijimura hums at the soft pink flush of his cheeks. It’s a good look on the omega.

He looks too expensive to touch, but those red eyes watch him, quiet, expectant. His mouth parts just a little, softly gasping.

Nijimura breaks the illusion by tapping him on the head with his knuckles. "You’re tired, yeah? Rest up.”

He gets back on his feet, smoothing down the crinkles in his vest. “Feel free to eat whatever’s in the fridge, you can order hotel service too if you want. I'll cover the extra costs tomorrow." 

That said, Nijimura still has 30 million yen left, and auctions are continuing until 3 am. He could make it to the stage and nab a few more omegas; send them all back. Have the boss and the client regret ever sending him here.

It wouldn’t matter if he never comes again; a gem has fallen right into his lap, tonight of all nights.

With Akashi securely where he wants him to be, Nijimura makes his way to the door, only to be stopped by a tug on his sleeve.

"Wait," Akashi breathes; an innocuous word heavy with questions, but void of emotion. Nijimura feels unsettled. He turns, those cat eyes are boring into him. Pained. “Where are you going?”

He pries stubborn fingers from his sleeves. The less time he stays in the room, the less likely Akashi’s sweet lilac smell will unravel his self control. "I have other things to do."

Akashi struggles to sit up; it’s the first time that night that Nijimura’s seen him do anything on his own, but he’s weak, legs collapsing on itself. He manages to get on his knees, body curling against the pillows. The yukata is mussed, revealing milky white thighs and Nijimura is hit with a cloying scent.

“At least, take it out,” Akashi says, face half buried into a cushion; it sounds like a soft whine. “Please.”

Nijimura steps back, or tries to, Akashi’s hands still find their way onto Nijimura’s sleeve, shirt, anything he can grab. Hooking, clinging fingers, tangling into his clothes. Nijimura swallows. “Take what out?”

Akashi flushes, whether from the drugs, or his heat, or the shame of being in this position, the red on his face spills down his nape; a pretty, delicious nape Nijimura wants to score his teeth against.

The omega doesn’t explain, at least not with words.

He has a slender, firm grip on Nijimura’s hand and pulls it toward him, guiding it until Nijimura’s calloused fingers meet against his thigh, pushing the yukata aside and _lower_. Nijimura wants to pull his hand away.

It’s cold; it’s hot. Exhilarating and dangerous all at the same time. His skin is as smooth as it looks.

“Here,” Akashi gasps, hips jerking when Nijimura grazes his entrance, dripping with slick. His fingers dip against a tight ring of muscles clenching around— a plug. A vibrating plug to be exact.

“Oh.”

Nijimura’s eyes widen when Akashi subconsciously pushes his ass against the warmth of his palm. Swallowing the spit in his mouth, Nijimura sits back on the bed. Something is burning its way up his neck. “Hold on, give me a moment.”

Akashi smells deliciously enticing, looks too tempting to ignore; with his legs splayed, ass jutting up in the air, and hole dripping with slick—any alpha would have jumped him then.

Nijimura is not just any alpha though; he does a great job at suppressing it, if only because he’s actively wrestling it with a spartan like tenacity.

He’s not a mutt, or a brute, as Kazuya called him earlier. He’s here for a job, he’s not here for this. Just pull the plug out, and put the omega to sleep. Leave.

Nijimura fights the urge to place his hands on those thin hips, feel his entire body up, pinch those sensitive nipples, lick and lap at his milk. Akashi’s hole makes a wet, suckling noise as Nijimura tugs on the vibrator, a beautiful rosegold gem sits at its base, probably worth two million at least.

There’s resistance because of its shape, and Akashi whimpers, hips drawing back, his hole inadvertently swallowing it again. Nijimura wonders how it’d feel, how obscene it’d sound if it was his cock buried deep in that warm, wet—

“Please,” Akashi cries, breathing labored, he has a white-knuckled grip on the bed sheets. “Hurry, it hurts—”

Fuck. _Get a hold of yourself, Shuuzou._

Nijimura slaps himself and pulls it out hastily with Akashi’s breathy plea. He drops it to the side; the toy hums on the cloth and Akashi trembles from the aftermath.

Nijimura stumbles onto his feet. He has to get out.

He has to go, _now_.

With a violent yank, Nijimura pulls the bed covers and throws it over Akashi, wrapping him up enough to smother his scent with washed linen.

“All right, that’s enough of that. Sleep,” he orders, patting Akashi’s head down and ignoring the way his stomach flips at red eyes peeking out from bed sheets. Cute, so cute. It’d be cuter if its teary— _shut up,_  damn alpha dick.

Nijimura reaches over to the bedside table where there’s a switchboard to the lighting in the suite.

He flips through all of the buttons, growling when all of the lights were turned on and humming in approval when several flicker off. He settles on one where only the light by the door remained.

“I’ll come back tomorrow morning. Until then, don’t do anything stupid.”

Nijimura gives no room or time for Akashi to speak; he marches to the door, pocketing his key card, yanking his jacket off its hook, and steps out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an after-thought chapter warning: no idea how social functions work, all I know is that people sip fancy wine and eat the cheeses, the cheese is always the most important. What kind of wine goes with the cheeses? What are bar drinks and such. In the end, like Nijimura, I say fuck it, gimme that nama beer. (I don't drink...)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **chapter warnings:** mention of suicide, random!!!!!!! drama!!!!!, I don't know where I'm going with this, but I realized hey it's almost been a month since i last updated so whoops, ooc!Akashi (he'll become oc soon... I Hope. I hope.)
> 
> \---
> 
> Hello, my friends.
> 
> It's as if I nearly forgot about this, but don't worry, I didn't. 
> 
> So I've said it in my other fic, but for those who haven't read it, here it is: 
> 
> See, 20k words in, I realize, despite writing an a/b/o fic, there are no nijiaka sexy times. None. Zip, zilch. I wrote the setting for the spice and now I can't even satisfy myself. Q: Why am I so self-denying? (A: Because obviously, Nijimura-san is a good alpha and won't bang Akashi senselessly, duh.)
> 
> So yes, the good news for the glitter readers: it's tooth-decaying domestic fluff.
> 
> \--
> 
> So yes, indeed. tooth-decaying fluff with some hint of story. I feel like I'm trying to be ~mysterious~ for good plot's sake, but hell, I don't even know how to do that. There's no mystery involved, whatsoever, just enjoy the ride. If I was to tldr the next few chapters, it is literally domestic fluff, them living together, smh. what a life.
> 
> So many words to this chapter and yet nothing happens. :/ Oh wells.

Seijuurou is nine years old.

He paces down the halls, returning to his room from violin practice that day. His fingers sting from the over usage and he hums Standchen Serenade’s under his breath, skipping over notes he can’t sing.

The late afternoon light streams through the windows and Seijuurou stops short of Father’s study at the sound of serious murmurs.

Mother would reprimand him for eavesdropping, but Seijuurou is always curious about the business father conducts. He’s always eager to learn something new, even if he may not understand it just  yet.

“Just another 50 million, Masaomi. In another decade, we’ll have developed a suppressant for the mating cycles. If you help me, I’ll credit it to the Akashi’s support.” The tenor sounds like his uncle, his sentence is full of vigor and enthusiasm. The shadows elongating through the door stretches in grand gestures,;it swipes at Seijuurou’s leg.

“There are whispers about your business practices, Misaki, it isn’t merely just a research center, and I refuse to have the Akashi’s name tied to your institution. Such things may be legal, but on my moral ground it isn’t…”

His father’s shadow sternly shakes his head, unimpressed. His uncle’s shadow droops.

“That’s all speculation.” A tense pause. “This is a monumental step for us, and you _know_ I don’t have enough funds to last us the year.”

A tense silence, father chooses not to speak.

Uncle spits words, venomous words. “ _I’ve_ built all this from the dirt and I was a fool to believe my own brother would support me when father has given me nothing.”

“Misaki.” A defeated sigh, and a rustle as father retrieves something from his desk. “50 million, is it? I’ll lend it to you this time, but don’t mention your projects to my wife. She will certainly hound me to withdraw my involvement.”

“Certainly.”

Seijuurou tilts his head, back against the wall, wondering.

He closes his eyes.

He opens them.

Seijuurou has his back against the wall, listening to his father who has not spoken to him since his doctor’s appointment. He is seventeen here, wishing he was younger, more naive.

He is covered with dust and smells of mop water, having insisted on going to school despite warnings not to.

“Misaki,” his father says, voice grave. He’s alone in his study with a phone pressed to his ear.

Seijuurou closes his eyes, wondering.

 

 

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Seijuurou says, voice steeling as there are three alphas standing at the front entrance. Their presence is intimidating but he’s been raised up to lift his head and never shrink.

His father’s contempt for him grows every moment Seijuurou refuses him.

 

 

 

Seijuurou is grabbed right outside his home, still in his uniform, ruined and stained from the alphas who had been jealous of him, of the betas he’s surpassed.

_Save me_ , he manages to think as the world he knew, the home he’s lived in, the prestigious school he’s gone to, folds in over itself in the form of a chloroform rag over his face.

His father disappears behind a curtain from the second floor, pretending to not have seen it.

Hands pull him into darkness. Hands massage his taut muscles, hands run down his sides, hands lifts up his legs.

A hand grips his shoulder, gently shaking him.

Akashi’s body is drenched in sweat as his eyes snap open. A voiceless scream is lodged in his throat.

He wakes up.

The damp air between sheets and skin cling to him like a mist. It’s too warm, too hot, but a slow, cold panic makes home in the pit of his stomach when he realizes he’s in a room he isn’t familiar with.

Akashi is confused, taking in the darkness of the suite, the tables, the mahogany, the curtains drawn tight to keep the sunlight at bay.

It’s morning.

He doesn’t realize there’s a man sitting at his side, waiting for him to finish looking around.

“It was probably a fever dream,” the man says, touching his forehead briefly with the back of his hand. Akashi jumps back, freezing.

His touch is cool, feels nice, a lot personal than those white gloved hands Akashi is so used to. “They gave you something to force you into a heat. It’ll wear off soon.”

Akashi can’t place who this man is or where he’s seen him, but he’s familiar, somehow. He drinks in the details: tall, sturdy, dripping with alpha pheromones, suit too expensive but too ruined for a man at a hotel like this.

The alpha stands from the bed to reassemble his belongings laid out on the coffee table. He pulls on his vest and the muscles in his back strain against his shirt. “Did you eat anything last night?”

That jarrs his memory, only a little; he was drugged, stripped bare, and strapped to leather cuffs. And then— and then?

The alpha sighs. “I figured. I’ll get us something; it’s too late to call for room service, so I hope you’re fine with eating out.”

Akashi watches him flop onto the couch noisily. “Let’s see… the nearest restaurants…”

The gears in his mind turn, reconnecting broken memories in the lull of a post-drug haze. A feeling of dread pools in his gut, but he swallows ( _swallows_ ) it all the same.

This is his new master.

Akashi has survived too much, for so long, to be afraid.

Yet, there’s a cold ribbon of _what ifs_ twirling inside him _,_ because this one is the youngest and most dangerous by far. His vest outlines a gun, his speaking mannerisms are brusque, his arms are thick with muscle. Akashi may walk away with more than just scars in deeper places, if he’s lucky enough to walk at all.

The air is heavy with tension and expectation; the alpha’s scent is overwhelming and beckoning.

Akashi needs, he wants.

His instinct gives him the strength to move. To survive.

Akashi shifts out of bed, feeling a sliver of control returning to his legs despite the persistent thrum under his skin. His yukata is terribly askew, but he fixes himself poorly, uncoordinated fingers smoothing down the various wrinkles in his obi.

The alpha has seated himself on the couch, busy flicking through his phone and tapping away at something on the screen. He spares a glance at Akashi before looking back at his phone.

Disinterested.

“What is it?”

Akashi sinks to the floor in front of him with well-practiced ease. He touches the man’s knees before sliding his palms up the inside of his thighs. He rests his fingers on his belt.

“What—”

Instantly, Akashi feels pain blossom from his head; he sees stars. He doesn’t have enough time to register the dull pain before hands pull him up from the floor hastily.

The alpha cradles his face, fingers brushing against his throbbing temple with soothing but frantic circles.

He was just kneed in the head.

“Shit— that was an accident.” The man’s face swims into view; he looks mildly concerned and also unimpressed. “What the hell were you trying to do?”

Akashi grasps his bearings, and he’s staring back at steele gray eyes. The alpha’s mouth, his upper lip protruding, resembles a duck.

“You bought me,” Akashi says, as if it’s a fact, and it is. The pain subsides and Akashi looks at him blankly. He’s had worse. He’s taken a lot worse. “This is what pets do for their masters.”

The man pushes him roughly, at least an arm’s length away. Akashi gazes at him, in awe at the frustrated sigh that the alpha releases. “It’s not master, it’s Nijimura.”

“...Nijimura,” Akashi echoes, astounded at the feel of his name on his tongue. It’s been a while since Akashi has addressed anyone by name. It’s pleasant, and surprisingly comforting. That is until there’s a stinging flick to his forehead. Akashi rubs at it, looking at him, wide eyed.

“That’s Nijimura- _san_ to you, brat.”

Akashi thinks it's strange to be looked at and not touched. He wrings his hands, feeling himself tremble, whether from relief or disappointment, he isn’t sure.

He lowers his head, lays down his pride. Akashi repeats. “Nijimura-san.”

Nijimura lets out a huff, a ghost of a smile lingering on his lips. Experience has taught Akashi to be wary of them, wary of the hand reaching over his head.

Akashi flinches, expecting a slap, or something harsher—Nijimura carefully sorts his bed head instead.

“Good.”

 

 

 

They leave the hotel at 10:14 am.

Akashi in his rumpled yukata; Nijimura in his rumpled suit. If the receptionists at the front think that they staggered out after a rough night, Akashi doesn’t have it in him to correct them. It’ll happen sooner or later, anyways.

Nijimura remains obliviously natural, turning over his card key, a pamphlet, a box—which the women returned to him.

_Kimura-san, this is a complimentary gift, please take it with you._

The dark flush that invades both Nijimura and the receptionists’ faces are lost to him.

Nijimura leads them down the hallway and into the parking garage, walking a few steps quicker than Akashi can manage.

Several times, Akashi stumbles over his feet. Each time, Nijimura is quick to grab his arm, reel him back upright. After the fifth time, Nijimura huffs and carries him with ease.

“You’re still weak, huh,” the alpha says, and Akashi takes offense, wriggling against his hold and insisting he can at least, walk.

“I’m sorry for being such a bother,” Akashi admits quietly, almost angrily, when he caves. His body is restless, and it’s infuriating how much it craves the warmth and pheromones emanating from Nijimura’s body.

“You didn’t ask for it, it’s fine.”

Nijimura leads him to a car.

White sedan, a Lexus, and Akashi is sure it isn’t his because the glee that obviously lights up in the alpha’s face is rather telling that he’s walked in on it like it’s Christmas.

The seats smell as pristine and untouched as the car looks, and Akashi tucks himself into the passenger’s seat, warily watching Nijimura flex his fingers as he presses buttons, all kinds of buttons.

The car rumbles to life shortly afterwards.

“I’m starving,” Nijimura says and steps on the gas, maneuvering out from the concrete maze. Akashi stares outside in interest as they drive away from the hotel.

He discovers that it had rained the previous night, going by the wet concrete and the dew clinging to the trees.

Akashi can’t remember when he’s last seen natural sunlight, the blue sky after the storm, average people on the streets with personal agendas, going places, meeting people.

Akashi’s chest swells with warmth as he leans against the window, committing each sound of the outside world to memory.

He’s afraid if he blinks, everything will scatter like a wisp of a dream.

 

 

 

“So,” Nijimura says slowly, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. It doesn’t take much to catch Akashi’s attention, after all Nijimura is speeding down the freeway, and any distraction from the possibility of _crashing_ is welcomed. “Burgers, fried chicken, or are you up for sushi?”

Akashi has a death grip on his seat cushion, back stiff, because it’s too fast, _why is he going so fast._ He looks at him, exhausted, questioning.

“Lunch,” Nijimura grunts, gaze flickering before he moves his eyes back on the road. Akashi mentally thanks him for that. “I don’t have much back at home, and you need to fatten up a little before the doctors take a look at you.”

_Doctors._ The word seizes his heart and Akashi’s blood runs cold.

He’s more than acquainted with _doctors_. The memory of rooms smelling like the tangy odors of bodily fluids and sharp bleach, of hands and beam lights probing him, of a bodily weight on him losing its warmth.

Nijimura takes his silence in a stride and continues talking. “Mm, you’re a rich kid, so I’m guessing burgers and chicken wouldn’t be your thing. Sushi it is, then.”

Akashi shakes himself of his stupor then, and opens his mouth.

There’s a million of things he wants to say to that. Firstly, he’s not a “rich kid,” hasn’t been considered one since he’s been ripped from his home; secondly, he’s not hungry.

But there’s a sudden tire screech as Nijimura does a sharp turn off the freeway ramp.

Akashi decides he’ll clamp his mouth shut, at least until the drive is over, else he’ll empty bile and water all over the car Nijimura doesn’t own.

 

 

 

Akashi watches him inhale ten plates of sushi within the first few minutes of sitting down. He’s shed his jacket, and had it tossed to the side, rolled up his sleeves to keep soy sauce from staining his shirt. Akashi wonders if anyone else has noticed the faint outline of a glock underneath the folds and creases of his vest.

_Yakuza_ , Akashi numbly thinks, if it’s anything going by the incongruity of expensive luxuries and the lack of table manners. There’s also that slight accented roll in Nijimura’s words and a sharp edge that he’s heard from delinquents, but Akashi is not a linguist.

He has questions, but he refrains. Asking leads to nothing but gags and something less savory in his mouth to keep him quiet.

The memory sours his weak appetite, and Akashi trains his eyes on the conveyor belt, ignoring the burning _something_ pulsing in his veins like a low hum of electricity.

Instead, Akashi memorizes every plate sliding past their booth and to the other patrons sitting at the counter.

The shop’s a relatively clean establishment, bright and cheery with yellow and white wallpaper. A cheery jingle plays faintly in the background, and Akashi can only guess it’s one of today’s top radio hits. He could almost forget the leering presence of three other alphas in the restaurant.

Almost. If it wasn’t for the niggling fact that he’s an omega in heat, and his sweet smell hovers in the air as discreetly as a neon sign.

_You didn’t ask for it_ , Nijimura had said.

But the stares he can feel are both chilling and simmering, crawling up his back and curling around his neck like a ghostly grip. A reminder of what’s expected of him as a _pet._

Akashi could run now, or try to. He’s out from the institution and he’s sure Nijimura is as careless as yakuza come. He could run. Run far away and go to— where would he go?

With his body like this, he’d get jumped the second he’s alone.

A cloth thrown over his face startles him out of his thoughts. He realizes he’s been hit with Nijimura’s jacket.

“Put it on, you look cold,” Nijimura says, not looking entirely at him, busying himself with grabbing another plate. Akashi drapes the jacket over him. He’s already wearing a haori over his yukata, but he doesn’t dare disobey.

“You need to eat more, you’re too skinny for your age, brat, that’s why you’re short.”

Nijimura sets a plate of maguro in front of him. Akashi hasn’t touched anything aside from the egg roll Nijimura offered earlier, and he makes no move to pick at the fish in front of him.

The color is blood red.

The alpha is giving him a look; lips thinning into a half-frown and half duck lip. It doesn’t let up, in fact, he keeps staring.

Akashi shifts his gaze downward midway and picks up his chopsticks.

When he says an obligatory _thank you_ , Nijimura acknowledges it with a noncommittal grunt.

The alpha continues devouring food, stacking towers at least ten plates tall, while piling a variety of sushi in front of Akashi to eat.

From his jacket, Nijimura’s scent is overpowering, but not unpleasant.

 

 

 

Nijimura parks the car on the side of the road after driving them through criss-crossing streets in a bustling, old-timey city.

Akashi feels kinship with the elders who leisurely stroll in their getas and yukatas. Except his has too many unseemly crinkles, and he holds Nijimura’s jacket closer to hide the worst of it.

Nijimura motions at him to follow him down the alleyways, grumbling about how finding parking “is a bitch.” Occasionally, he’d offer his hand to help Akashi step over puddles and wet concrete.

Akashi’s pride insists on batting his hand away, insist that he’s fine. He’s always been fine, managed to hold his own if he could’t. But Nijimura’s scowl says _no objections_ , and Akashi grimly remembers that he barely has a sketch of the alpha’s character.

Nijimura takes him down a road that has open telephone wires woven above and between worn buildings. The trees along the road have begun shedding.

It’s autumn.

Akashi walks carefully so that his yukata doesn’t get muddied from the strewn bits of foliage. His getas press and crush the leaves underneath.

They reach a small nook between a bustling store and a deserted realtor’s office. Nijimura’s sidelong gaze is obvious. Akashi knows what he’s thinking too. Akashi pointedly lifts the hem of his yukata when he ascends the stone staircase with the grace he’s learned in the first seventeen years of his life.

 

 

 

Nijimura’s place, as he predicted, is small and homely, tucked away on the floor above a mom and pop shop.

There is a worn couch that takes up the bulk of the space in the living room, a coffee table with some scattered magazines, a kitchen adjacent to the wall. On the prongs of the stove top sit well-used, but clean pots and pans.

Akashi nearly misses the fridge, only because it is the size of a security box and hidden away in a space underneath the stove.

“Make yourself at home,” Nijimura announces, taking off his shoes at the genkan and tramples in. Faintly, Akashi can hear the loud ring of the bell attached to the front door of the shop below. “Go sit down on the couch or something.”

Still somewhat dazed, Akashi wordlessly makes his way to the couch, his socks sliding noiselessly on the wooden flooring. Nijimura disappears, presumably into the rooms down the hall.

In the ringing silence, Akashi stares around.

There is an abundance of clutter and a lack of rhyme or reason to the organization of it all.

A display cabinet sits near the entrance. A poor attempt of a collection center with the shelves messily lined with miscellaneous things. Japanese trinkets, of darumas to sandalwood fans, contrast with a small collection of uncharacteristic pastel plushes and dolls.

Next to the cabinet, stacks of magazines and cardboard boxes tied up with nylon string. Recyclables.

A TV sits in front of the couch, second-hand, with a layer of dust on the bulbous screen. Nijimura probably sits here with a bento box from the store downstairs, watching news, or maybe even comedy reels.

A well-lived in home has traces of a person's life down to their habits, in small useless items or in the magazines peppering from the coffee table to the floor. This is quite the convenient but lackluster lifestyle, typical of a bachelor.

So how could he afford 200 million?

_Nijimura is a yakuza_ , Akashi concludes, because Nijimura doesn’t have the money to buy him, not when he lives like this. Not when the car parked on the streets was obviously not his. He could be a lackey, blindly following orders of taking Akashi through the motions of a to-do-list.

Lunch, check. Rest, check.

“Hmm, it’s still there.”

Akashi startles as the back of Nijimura’s hand presses against his forehead, his skin is too warm. He hadn’t even noticed the alpha coming up from the side.

Nijimura drifts away toward the kitchen, to push open the latch windows, inviting in the cool autumn air.

“The bath’s ready for you and there’s a change of clothes on the counter. Sleep the rest of this off, and we’ll get you some actual clothes tonight.”

Buy clothes, pending check.

Akashi stares at him while he saunters toward him.

Nijimura has an unreadable expression aside from his scowl. He scowls a lot, Akashi notices. He’d jut out that upper lip and furrow those brows, like he’s annoyed with playing errand boy.

_I’m sorry,_ the phrase sits on the tip of his tongue like a familiar prayer.

But then Nijimura cuffs his head lightly with a brush of his hand.

“Go on,” he says, and doesn’t repeat himself.

 

 

 

Akashi carefully unrobes, dutifully folding the yukata and resting it on the closed toilet seat.

He stares openly at himself in the mirror, taking the moment to absorb and familiarize himself with a body he’s no longer considered his.

Akashi doesn’t remember how he’s looked like when he was seventeen, but there’s something haunting about seeing a shell of his former self. Once sharp eyes, now hollow. Self-assurance and pride beaten into submission. He’s pale and slender, stomach flat and ribs jutting out from under too white skin.

Akashi would like to believe it’s the lack of appetite. He had never been hungry enough to stomach anything. (Swallowing everything despite.)

There’s an unmistakable flush dusting his entire body and invisible fingerprints mapping every ridge and bone. The lingering touch of a hand on his arm, a hand curling around his neck, touching him in places too deep and unforgettable.

Akashi closes his eyes—

_Now what?_

—reopens them.

The Akashi in the mirror changes, only slightly; _he’s_ staring at himself. Brows dipped in slight concern, mostly pitying. _What are you going to do now?_

Akashi finds that he doesn’t know how to answer.

 

 

 

He was abandoned. Akashi knows that much.

He doesn’t know how many years has passed since; whether or not his disappearance has left a ripple on his home and school.

Akashi has been forced down and held underneath water without a way out. The burning in his skin, the prickling in his arm, are cuffs to keep him from surfacing.

He screamed for help. But in the end, no one came for him.

_This alpha isn’t any different._

Soon, he’ll be taken elsewhere, tied up and thrust back into a drugged haze, losing the concept of time and mind.

_What does he do now?_

Akashi feels the steady drum of water against his skin. Washing, cleansing, numbing.

_Fight,_ his other self gently reminds him. He stands naked in the corner, body littered with lasting marks, an ugly bruise contorts his face, a syringe held in his hand.

_I’ll live,_ Akashi agrees, but a weight presses on his shoulders and he wonders about the uphill climb.

As an omega, freedom is a myth.

This is the first time in a long time that he was allowed to bathe alone. Akashi wonders if this is the closest thing he can get to freedom.

He wonders how it would feel like to _choose_ again; to choose to plunge himself under until water fills every crevice of his lungs. To decide to escape from all this, to just not be.

To laugh at the _idiot_ whose wasted 200 million on a corpse, floating lifelessly in the water. They could ravage him for all he cares; he’d be dead and gone.

The other part of his mind helpfully supplies that _that’s_ one of the reasons why they robbed him of his autonomy, drugged him enough so he couldn’t think.

In the end, Akashi rinses himself of suds and soap. He climbs into the tub and sits in it, folding his knees to his chest.

It’s entertaining to fantasize about the possibility of death, but Nijimura-san has been kind to him so far; feeding him, running the bath for him.

_Kind_ being easier to stomach than the hard truth that Nijimura is following orders to deliver the product safely and in good health.

Still, it isn’t good manners to suddenly die in someone’s bath tub, yakuza or not. Akashi has been raised better than that.

He tucks his head against his knees.

Idly, he wonders how long it would take for the tub water to turn black from how dirty he feels.

 

 

 

Akashi overstays his bath, having sunken into the warmth of the water. A knock on the door jolts him from his reverie. “You better not be sleeping in there.”

He jerks up from the water, heart beating rapidly. “I’m sorry—” The door taps again and he hears Nijimura’s fading footsteps.

He dries himself with a soft blue towel, glancing at the folded stack of clothes underneath.

It’s a few sizes too big, smells faintly like washed laundry, and Nijimura-san too. Everything smells like him; it’s his place after all.

Akashi spends the next few minutes rolling everything up, the waistband of his boxers, his sweatpants, the sleeves of his hoodie.

He looks somewhat presentable. Pitifully small, and Akashi frowns at the reminder of Nijimura’s comment of _that’s why you’re short_.

Akashi toddles his way back to the living room, skin flushed and still feeling the haze of leftover stimulants and the heat of the bath.

It’s not hard to find the alpha. He’s in the kitchen, turning off the tap as he puts a kettle on the stove.

He’s on the phone apparently and Akashi steps back into the hallway, respectfully waiting for him to finish.

“—sounds like you got your hands full, but that makes the both of us, I guess,” he says, as he flicks the stove switch on. Then he sighs. “Uh, yeah, about that, just tell the boss I blew it all on gambling, tough shit.” A pause and a short, scathing laugh. “It’s fine, don’t worry, I haven’t broken it _yet._ ”

Akashi gives him a few moments to say his goodbye, before he scuttles, feet softly hitting the floorboards.

“Nijimura-san,” he says as a greeting, coming up from behind him, carefully maintaining a distance of five steps away. Appropriately close, but not distancing.

Nijimura just gives him a nonchalant glance and pockets his phone.

“It’s kinda huge on you, but we’ll make do.” On the countertop, he places two mugs. “Do you want hot chocolate or tea?”

Akashi distantly watches the blue fire of the gas stove lick the kettle. Nijimura rummages his cupboards, and after a few seconds— “Or do you not want anything at all?”

“I’d like tea,” Akashi answers slowly. He’s fascinated by how unfamiliar the words feel in his mouth. He pauses and says. “Thank you.”

Nijimura snorts; dropping a tea bag into one cup and pouring an instant coffee mix into the other. He doesn’t move, Akashi doesn’t either. They wait for the water to boil.

 

 

 

The _burning_ hadn’t fade, in fact, it drew back and boils over. The kettle on the stove begins whistling when Akashi realizes that he’s grabbed Nijimura’s sleeves in his hands. There’s a painful pounding between his eyes, as if someone’s set fire on his nerves.

Akashi needs something, anything to take the edge off. Something to numb him. A needle, another hit, something else; _he needs more, needs more—_

Akashi breathes wet gasps as Nijimura stares down at him, wide-eyed. He doesn’t speak, just has a firm hold on his arm to keep him from keeling over.

Nijimura is an alpha.

He could do anything to him right now. His boss would never know as long as Akashi is cleaned up and his skin is left unmarred.

Akashi wouldn’t be able to fight if Nijimura buried those fingers into his hair, held his head still while he thrust into his mouth. Use him so thoroughly until his head splits open.

“Niji—”

To Akashi’s surprise, Nijimura plants a hand on his head and pushes him back, lightly. Flicks him right in the forehead with a force so stinging, it snaps Akashi from his daze.

“Do you want sugar and milk in your tea, or do you drink it plain?” Nijimura resumes, nudging Akashi toward the couch as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened.

At a loss, Akashi wanders to the couch, dropping on it gracelessly, holding his hands together to hide the problem growing between his legs.

“Well?” Nijimura prompts, throwing a gaze over his shoulder. The waft of coffee and sencha blends in the room, masking the mess of pheromones. A temporary bandage.

He’s grateful but also mortified. “Milk.”

 

 

 

It storms again in the afternoon, and Nijimura leaves the window slightly ajar, enough for the rain to permeate the air with its hanging moisture.

Akashi hasn’t touched his cup of tea, choosing to marvel at the steam rising as it sits on the coffee table instead.

The TV blares in front of them; a cooking show that neither of them (Akashi assumes) have interest in.

Akashi watches it all the same; he’s exhausted, wound up. There’s a weight on his chest and a breath he can’t catch.

He shifts his legs. The sensation has dulled into a muted tingle, but it’s still there, a torment on his nerves. With every draw of stilted air, he’s reminded of Nijimura and his overwhelming presence beside him.

It takes a slow while but Akashi realizes that Nijimura has been watching him, resting his elbow on the back of the couch, leaning his head against his hand. His eyes could cut steel.

“How much did they give you?” he asks suddenly.

Akashi’s stomach drops at the question. Nijimura’s jaw tightens, and his stomach lurches, because _I don’t know, I can’t remember._ Nijimura takes a sharp breath. “Your heat should be gone by now. It’s not and it’s getting worse.”

“I’m sorry,” Akashi starts, panic rising up his spine. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Those fuckers,” Nijimura says, very quietly. He stands abruptly, turning sharply on his heels, putting ten paces between them, but it feels like miles. Akashi’s chest tightens.

The alpha studies him, carnal hunger in his gaze and Akashi freezes.

This is it: what he wants, doesn’t want.

But Nijimura doesn’t cross over to him, just presses his hands against the countertop behind him. He takes a deep breath, finding it easier to stand near the open window.

The rain falls harder.

“You need to see a doctor,” he finally says.

Akashi’s hold on his sweatpants tighten; his knuckles turn white. _Doctor._

_“Seijuurou-kun seems to be acting difficult today.”_

“It’ll go away,” Akashi manages. He curls in on himself, tucking his head into his knees. His stomach turns over. “Please don’t concern yourself with me.” _Please don’t._

_“I have a new formula for you to try, I know you’ll like it.”_

Akashi becomes conscious of the dripping mess in his borrowed sweatpants. He knows Nijimura knows about it which makes it _worse_. His face feels hot and he wants nothing but the floor to swallow him whole.

“Akashi,” Nijimura says, tone softer this time around. “Do you want to see a doctor. Or do you want to sleep it off.”

He takes a moment to ease his breathing, fingers clutching at his arm, nails digging into the cloth of his shirt. Concentrate on the pain and not the twitch of _something_ missing inside.

Akashi scratches himself until the sting overtakes the burning in his veins.

“Sleep,” Akashi says, closing his eyes tightly. “I’ll sleep.”

 

 

 

Blankets and pillows, lots of them.

Nijimura empties a whole stash over his head and onto the couch. The relief of drowning in cotton is countered by the fact that _everything_ smells of Nijimura and his minty pine.

Akashi is a confused mess of tired and helplessly aroused. He doesn’t voice it though, just flails a little as Nijimura stacks layers upon layers.

“Are you fine with this?” he asks, midway.

Akashi nods; he isn’t cold, but still, his body trembles.

The alpha looks relatively put together, more or less, compared to a few moments ago. Comforted with the fact that Akashi’s scent is buried underneath and gone.

He leaves the TV playing at a soft volume as he turns off the light. _I’ll be in the other room._

The rain continues its downpour, drumming against the metal pipes along the wall outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, something happens, but it'll happen later. 
> 
> Anyways, see you soon.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **chapter warnings:** flashback to unpleasant non-con with Akashi, inaccurate as hell about hospital procedures, smoking, vague ages, shoehorning every one of my favorite characters in here, lots of plot holes, just remember I can't write smart lol.
> 
> ALTERNATING POV'S WITHOUT ANY WARNING; thought I'd say warn you, it's messy, real messy.
> 
> \---
> 
> Hello, friends.
> 
> It's been a rough month the last month, so I'm sorry about the lack of updates, but here's something. I held off on posting it, mostly because the writing felt weak and I figured if I left it alone enough, I'll come back to it all nice and shiny (which, won't ever happen, but I could dream)
> 
> But alas, something is better than nothing, and life moves on, so here's this. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> See you soon, friends.

Sleep takes Akashi into a study, surrounded by the toasty smell of old books and sunshine.

Memories trickle in tune with the muted raindrops in the waking world.

Here, he feels the rugged scrape of rope, tying his arms together as he sits on a chair with nothing to ease the hard surface of the oak against his skin. Thin wires map around his body, the beige tape nearly blend in with the flush on his white skin. Something is shaking, _shaking_ inside him, against him.

 

> they hold his wrists down, puncturing paper thin skin with a needle, then withdrawing. _His heat will kick in after his first orgasm._

An imitation Monet painting hangs over him, on the wall, along with many other small artworks of eclectic styles. The faceless woman with the parasol gazes down at him, distantly. If he thinks hard enough, she watches him with a sorrowful gaze.

Weeping at how his shirt is undone, how his trousers and boxers hang loose off his ankle, how obscene his legs are spread open, forced apart, and at the small, vibrating bulbs inside him. Shame has long colored his face red.

 

> darkness. _Welcome, welcome to a very special auction of the night._ And then bright, shining lights.

“I bought this, just for you. Pretty, isn’t it?” the older alpha laughs, jovial as he undoes the first button of his shirt, and then the buckle to his pants. The girth of his waist is wide, his collar suffocates his neck.

Akashi does not look at what’s in his hand, but it’s pressed against his cheek; a mechanical buzzing, singing, it reeks of plastic. “Would you like to try it out?”

He doesn’t answer, he shuts his eyes against the warm sunlight peering through the tall window panes, ignores the thrum under his skin, the electricity running through his muscles.

He imagines his labored breaths are from the child in the painting instead, calling out to his mother, asking her to wait, as he runs uphill.

His mother stands at the peak, a parasol in her hands, her white dress swaying in the breeze.

A rough hand pulls him away from his daydream, back to reality, back to the hot flesh on his lips.

He falls forward, downwards. His knees hit against the flooring.

“Suck,” his master commands, voice breathy and raw. Akashi obediently parts his lips, tongue flat against the underside of his cock, taking it in, everything in. The raw smell, the precome, the tang mixing in with the sour bile lancing up his throat.

 

> under bright lights: red, green, blue; shadows of people clad in black suits, white masks, cold voices, indifferent gazes. Latex gloves, pinching, prodding, kneading, cold.

Mother would wait.

Mother always waited for him in his room, her gray eyes, warm and gentle, like the touch of her hand on his forehead.

Fingers twist in his hair, spinning knots, dictating him to push and pull, in and out— _in, out, in._

Her hand so tender on his brow, brushing his hair back, gently, so gently. _Sleep, sleep, get some rest._

Akashi struggles to breathe, tears rimming his eyes. He looks above, at the Monet woman, at _mother—_

“Deeper.”

 

> _Wait no, it’s too strong—_ it doesn’t wait. A loud cry rips out of him.

He opens his throat, holds his breath, becomes a rag doll of a human as he stuffs the alpha’s cock into his mouth; chest heaving for air, but he can’t. Akashi _can’t._

“Good boy, don’t spill now.”

Warm cum floods his mouth, the flesh on his tongue pulses. Heat glides down his throat in spurts and erupts past his lips. He swallows and _swallows_. Coughing when the fingers untangle their hold, allowing him to break away to gasp for air.  

“Seijuurou-kun, you made such a mess. You know, you can’t do that.”

Akashi shivers and jerks to the touch between his thighs, so close, so far, hot but cold. He cries.

“I’m sorry, master, I won’t do it again, I’ll clean it up—”

Akashi gasps, but he doesn’t stop. Didn’t even hear him, as rough hands slide further down the inside of his thighs. The alpha fondles the underside of his straining cock, and then pushes a finger inside, against the vibrators in him, _shaking and shaking_ , pressing up against the too sensitive bundle of nerves. Pleasure courses through Akashi’s veins, drawing his body and muscles taut like a bow.

He’s given a few seconds of relief before they’re pulled out, one at a time, popping with a wet noise and Akashi heaves.

Sweet, glorious air. Given a few seconds to break the surface before he drowns again.

Cold, plastic presses into him, splitting him open, folding him half.

_No, no, no—please, I can’t. I can’t—_

Akashi jerks, eyes snapping wide with a voiceless scream lodged in his throat. He can't move.

He’s lying on the cushions of the sofa, cold sweat dribbles from his hairline and disappears down into the collar of his oversized shirt.

A pot clacks noisily on the stove top and earthy scent wafts in the air.

Nijimura is there, back turned, humming a tune, offkey.

 _You’re not there anymore_ , his mind’s voice would say, as he releases his grip on the blankets cast aside. Akashi presses his head back into the pillows, swallowing thickly.

 _I know, but I will be,_ he thinks, slipping off into another dream, where nightmares are but a breath and a coin toss away.

 

 

 

This isn’t a dream, nor a nightmare:

A sting on his arm and a deceptively gentle hand on his head, _I have a new formula for you to try, I know you’ll like it. It’s twice as effective as the last._

Akashi thrashes, but it does little against the hard leather biting into his wrists. _Doctor, doctor, please, no more._ Akashi doesn’t speak, his whimpers molding around the plastic in his mouth. He bites, his jaw strains in protest.

The straps around his wrists saw into his skin as wiry fingers undo his buckle and the doctor positions in front of him; Akashi's legs splay around his hips.

The chair screeches when Akashi is pushed, pulled, _pushed, pulled._

A husky, frail voice in his ear tells him how hot he is, how tight he is, how much of a slutty omega he’s become.

Just.

A little more.

He does not see the syringes curled weakly in his palm.

 

 

 

Something warm is pressed to his mouth, and Akashi, for all the strength he can muster, jerks his head away, lips pressed thin and stubborn.

“You need to eat something. You threw up yesterday, you know.” Nijimura doesn’t sound pleased. Who would if they had to scrub the floor clean from digested bile. He hears a growl, and feels the irritation melting from Nijimura's tone.

Akashi forces himself awake even though his eyes refuse otherwise. Nijimura’s hand between his shoulder blades eases him up.

The alpha tips the spoon and soup trickles into his mouth. It’s warm and wet, Akashi swallows everything, before his stomach turns.

He chokes, covering his mouth, eyes squeezing shut with tears.

Nijimura offers him a napkin, while rubbing circles into his back. Akashi coughs but nothing comes out; even though his stomach shudders and he wants to retch.

The alpha doesn’t ask for an explanation, instead he says. “Are you sure you don’t want to see a doctor?”

Akashi’s answer hasn’t changed.

 

 

 

Past midnight.

Nijimura emerges from the bathroom, wet hair curling against the nape of his neck. He catches the water with a hand towel before it drips to his shirt.

With a heavy sigh, he starts picking up some of the scattered pillows around the couch.

Akashi is curled around several of the cushions, fast asleep to the near-mechanical drone of the lady poised for a newsreel. Nijimura turns the TV off, and slips the remote back onto the coffee table, near the bowl of untouched pork congee.

He is gentle when he touches Akashi’s cheek with the back of his hand.

 

 

 

The next few days continue with Akashi still wrapped in a fever. He doesn’t eat, doesn’t drink.

Akashi only has enough energy to crawl into the shower for a quick rinse before Nijimura finds that he’s fallen over, unconscious, with a towel weakly gripped in his hand.

When he’s not asleep, he’d gaze at Nijimura with glossy eyes, waiting, pleading. Nijimura pretends he doesn’t notice.

He knows he’s not helping; his alpha scent saturates everything, everywhere.

Every now and then, Nijimura would kneel at the couch, a hand resting on the blankets that have now begun to smell intoxicatingly sweet. “I can call someone,” he’d offer.

 _No._ Akashi would reply with a petulant shake of his head.

In the waning hours of the night, Akashi would just clench his eyes and let out a whimper.

 

 

 

At some point, Nijimura asked one of the staff (beta) downstairs to check on Akashi every two hours. As much as Nijimura enjoys playing house and looking up _omega extended induced heat problems_ on google, he’s got a suit and rolex watch to return.

He doesn’t like leaving business unattended, so he scrambles towards the bustling city square.

Their headquarters makes home in a corporate building, consisting of three floors sandwiched between two office management departments. Each floor is remodeled with conference rooms, supply and storage rooms with ID-activated bolts for locks.

There is always something unspeakably _off_ when he walks through the lobby.

In the elevator, a plain salaryman stands next to a man with a machine gun, who is standing next to Nijimura, who looks like he’s come straight from a fitness gym.

Everyone minds their business— the people here are very good at doing that.

Nijimura gets off at his designated floor and pulls the chain around his neck. He scans his dog tag into the screen. Not one foot in through the door and he’s tackled and hauled off.

“Nijimura~” Hayama says, in his atrocious baby blue hoodie. His converse today is mismatched, a high-top with a chuck. He thinks he's being hip, but god, his fashion is so stupid. “Everyone’s been askin’ for you, yknow. When are you gonna treat us with the extra muns, hm?”

“I don’t have it,” Nijimura deadpans. He tries to brush Hayama off, but he’s too heavy and overbearing. “Spent all of it that night. Stop leeching when you can get your own job.”

“Ahh, what a _waste_.” Hayama lets out a disappointed outburst. It takes him only a second to recover, his cheeky grin reaching up to his eyes. “So, how was your party night?”

“Not bad, got the client about fifteen omegas; it should be enough, I hope.”

“I wasn’t talking about _that_ ,” Hayama says, dropping his voice and asking in a not-at-all quiet whisper. “Didja finally get off your celibate ass and picked up some hot omegas? Ya know its way cheaper than going to the red light district—”

Nijimura’s mind flickers to Akashi, and it only deepens his already existing frown. “Tell Mayuzumi to come up on his next break, I gotta talk to him.”

Hayama stops mid-ramble at his sudden request, but he’s magicked out his phone from his pocket anyways. “Dunno why you can’t do it yourself.”

“Cus he ignores me.” Nijimura finally manages to shove Hayama off. He tsks when he realizes the bagged suit he’s holding is crumpled.

Nijimura glares at it, and then at him. Thanks.

“I’ll talk to you later.”

“Wait, so didja get yourself an omega—”

“ _Bye,_ Hayama.”

Nijimura turns the corner.

 

 

 

They stand in silence for a while, drinking—for Nijimura, a can of coffee, and for Mayuzumi, a bottle of yuzu tea, which was 400 yen sacrificed to the vending machine so Nijimura can keep him from disappearing back into the elevator.

“So?” Mayuzumi prompts, frowning.

“So,” Nijimura echoes as he smooths his face from a frown into the blankest expression he could maintain. “Induced heat lasts from 24-36 hours. If he’s had more than two dosages, an omega could die, correct?”

The other watches him, unimpressed as he sips on his PET bottle. Nijimura decides to lean back, checking to make sure no one else is stalking down the hallway to overhear them.

“If…” Nijimura continues. He sighs, feeling the slightest awkward under the other’s blank gaze. “If an omega is still in heat after 30 hours—”

“The meds could’ve been counterfeit or some cheap knockoff. Take them to a center, they need to see a doctor.”

Nijimura lets out a huff. “I know that—”

“Then do so.” Mayuzumi walks away, tipping up his drink. “I’ll take this as compensation for my time, but don’t you dare bother me again.”

 

 

 

Nijimura presses his hand into Akashi’s.

It’s too cold and clammy, limp and lifeless, and he wants to kick himself mercilessly for letting this lie for a few days.

Nijimura could fool himself and say it was an oversight on his part, but it was so _fucking_ obvious Akashi needed to see a professional. Mayuzumi was such a great help too. (Not.)

“Akashi, I’m going to take you to a place where they’ll take care of you,” he says, already removing the layers of blankets. Akashi stirs awake just as Nijimura scoops his arms underneath him. His body is hot, the clothes barely mask the sticky heat on his skin. “Is that okay with you?”

Akashi meets his gaze and for a long moment, Nijimura wonders if he’s heard him, but then Akashi nods.

Nijimura feels his chest tightening.

 

 

 

 _“I don’t like the sound of that,”_ the voice says, and Nijimura fiddles with the bluetooth in his ear so he can hear better.

“Me neither, but none of their omegas have died yet, so it’s worth the shot.”

_“Ever the risk-taker, aren’t you. How much was he? A hundred million? That’s a fuck ton of money flushed down the drain if shit hits the fan.”_

Nijimura slows the car down at a stop light. He glances over to the passenger seat; Akashi is despondent with his head lolling about as the car comes to a gentle stop at the street light.

“Two hundred, but I’m not thinking about that.”

Nijimura reaches over to nudge him back onto the cushion sandwiched between the window and the car seat.

_“Sure, of course you aren't, you’re going out of your way for him. Guess it’s true then: the gossip that you’ve finally decided to take one home to bang.”_

Nijimura snorts, a half-frown twitching on his lips. “Hayama really needs to shut up.”

 _“You’re not denying it?”_ he helpfully points out, and if Nijimura could see his face, there’d sure be that smug, coy smile he'd love to slug.

“I’m hanging up.”

 

 

 

A warm room, painted baby yellow, swims into his vision.

Akashi’s eyes track from the translucent, cotton drapes to the cool sheets spread underneath him. There are soft beeps of machinery near him, and his gaze follows a thin tube leading from an IV drip bag, down to his wrist, bandaged.

Panic settles in.

He’s not in Nijimura’s apartment anymore.

Was he given away?

A warm touch on his arm steals his attention, and he jerks, eyes widening.

“Good evening. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Akashi Seijuurou,” a lilting voice says; it’s melodic and soothing. The warm hand is comforting, though he doesn’t relax under the faint touch.

Fuzzily, Akashi can make the outline of a person in white bowing over his bed.

“Do you mind if I call you Sei-chan?”

Hesitantly, he shakes his head.

“This might be very frightening and new to you, but everything is going to be okay. We’ll help you feel better.” A pause. Long black hair falls over his gentle, teal eyes. He squeezes Akashi’s hand, firmly and with promise.

Akashi looks down at his hand and then up at him.

Heart thudding loudly in his ears and fighting the cold ribbon of nausea in his gut, Akashi weighs his options, and realizes— there are none.

“Will that be all right?”

He resigns; he nods.

 

 

 

Nijimura’s burned through two cigarettes in the last twenty minutes, taking in a deep drag and letting the smoke escape his nose in plumes. He watches gray wisps spiral to the overhanging street lamp.

It’s a quiet, chilly night.

It’s been several hours since Akashi’s been admitted, and the nurses haven’t said it was okay for him to see him yet.

 _We’ll also conduct a full body check to make sure nothing else is broken_ , they chime, and they weren’t subtle about the accusing glares they shoot his way when they think he isn’t looking.

Nijimura grinds the butt of the cigarette onto the concrete with the toe of his sneakers.

“You’re within hospital grounds, I could have you kicked out right now,” a _too_ familiar voice sing-songs. Nijimura twitches as he finds the source of the annoyance.

In that familiar, cat-like grace, he steps down the small staircases of the garden walkway.

Ugh, greasy noodle.

Katsuya, was it? No, not quite right.

“The hell are you doing here.”

As he sits (uninvited) on the bench seat next to him, Nijimura notices that the noodle is wearing a doctor’s coat over a plain shirt and trousers. His hair still looks greasy under the shine of the lamp light.

“Not a nice way to address Sei-chan’s doctor, is it now?”

Nijimura’s frown turns into a full scowl. _Sei-chan?_

He shoves his hands into his pockets. Instinct tempts Nijimura into exchanging a few more verbal blows with this unsavory character, but he concedes for today, eyeing the clipboard in his hand. “How’s he doing?”

“It’s nothing serious,” he begins professionally. He flips through the papers. “In layman’s terms, the institution had him constantly drugged on cheap stimulant and sedatives, he’s suffering withdrawals. Aside from that, malnourished, dehydrated, fatigued.”

That explains it. Sort of. Nijimura settles against the bench in contemplation and lingering guilt. The latter was Nijimura’s fault, he couldn’t get Akashi to stomach anything in the past few days.

The doctor begins again, “Our suppressants are working wonderfully if you were worrying about wasting your 200 million omega.”

 _I wasn’t—_ Nijimura was about to say before he cuts him off.

“Leave Sei-chan with us for a week or so. Your alpha stank is too much for him, it’s making things worse.”

 _Stank._ Nijimura’s upper lip jerks upwards just a tad. He keeps himself from biting back harshly. “I’ll leave him in your care then, doctor.” _Gross noodle_ , he adds mentally as an insult.

“Mibuchi Reo. We met under pseudonyms, I believe,” the doctor says, though doesn’t show any signs of offering his hand or moving off the bench. “Not like it helps you at all; anyone could recognize you from the ridiculous duck lip on your face.”

Nijimura purses his lips— and then flattens it into a frown.

Mibuchi swipes a stray strand of hair behind his ears. “Then, moving onto his full body check-up, I’ll have to say, you’re not the dog I thought you were. Either you have impressive self-control, or… if there is anything you’d like me to check for you, I also do examinations for alphas—”

“Fuck no. I don’t need your hand anywhere up my ass,” Nijimura nearly shouts, a blush crawling up his ears.

“How uncouth _,_ ” Mibuchi tsks with a shit-eating smile on his face that he wants to punch. He blatantly ignores the murderous aura Nijimura is emitting and continues. “Anyways, there is no permanent damage, but his anus is swollen, presumably from the show at the venue. Nothing that won’t heal on its own in a week. Though, there may be fissures if you decide to put your filthy hands on him too soon.”

Nijimura bristles even more.

“For an omega of his class, I thought he’d have medical files in the database, but he’s ghosted since presenting as an omega.” If there were glasses, Mibuchi might as well have adjusted them now; instead he brushes his hair back again. “I’ll be frank. It’s hard to know where he’s been or what happened since his presentation _,_ but it’s obvious. The boy has had terrible things done to him.”

A long pause, and Mibuchi stares at him, judging him with his dark, teal eyes. “So tell me this. Why did you buy him knowing that you have no way of caring for him?”

Nijimura feels a knot in his chest. Oh guilt, what a familiar friend. He pushes it aside as he takes out his cigarette box, grabbing another smoke. “The same reason why I bought all the other omegas.”

“The _other omegas_ are currently being housed here at this facility, but this one isn’t.” Mibuchi’s voice is suddenly cold.

“Because,” Nijimura offers. He flicks his lighter, holds the flame to the end of his cigarette. He’s trying to save this sinking excuse. “He’s gonna be forced into tests and studies against his will. And he’s gone through enough.”

There’s a stony and lasting edge in the look Mibuchi gives him. Nijimura knows he’s hit bullseye. The research center isn’t as saintly as it charades to be. After another second, Mibuchi’s expression smooths over. “There’s another reason why you’re not turning him over to us, isn’t there.”

Nijimura exhales, smoke billowing out from his teeth. “I want to give him the semblance of a normal life; that enough of an explanation for you?”

“I'm calling bullshit,” Mibuchi snorts, but that was the end of that, and the silence and atmosphere returns to that between two strangers.

Not strangers. Nijimura’s just sitting with a doctor, that’s all. He’d offer a smoke if he liked the guy, but he doesn’t.

“If I had him, I’d treasure Sei-chan; I would dedicate my life to treating him well,” Mibuchi says seriously, staring ahead, into the bushes bordering the path.

Nijimura says nothing to that; it’s an odd declaration but everything about this man is weirder than odd. “Unlike some trigger-happy dog.”

 _That_ catches his attention. Nijimura resists coughing on his smoke. This conversation has been nothing but stabbing insults from Mibuchi. It’s time to even the playing field.

“So, what was a doctor doing at a casino club watching omegas getting wrecked; don’t tell me you get off on that sort of thing.”

“Not at all,” Mibuchi says smoothly. It’s infuriatingly hard to ruffle his feathers. “Do you honestly think the center would hand over 300 million to a caveman and allow them to use it however they wanted?”

“I got you your fifteen patients, didn’t I?”

"And gambled away the remaining 30 million, which you could have spent in a smarter way.”

Nijimura half-shrugs; he rests his arm over the back of the bench. “Well, lucky for you, you’re getting back _some_ of the money.”

Mibuchi raises a delicate eyebrow. “How do you mean?”

“What do you think is paying for the hospital treatment right now?”

“Is that so.” Mibuchi looks amused. “It’s good to know that Sei-chan’s alpha isn’t as stupid as he looks.”

More insults that add to injury. Nijimura resists biting on his cigarette, it’ll just make it taste nastier.

The doctor stands up, dusting his lab coat of stray leaves.

Good riddance.

“Well, _Shuu-chan_ , my offer still stands if you want to take it. Lend us your body for a bit and you’ll get 10 million for the trouble. Alpha patients are high in demand now a days. We’re looking to induce ruts, you see—”

“I want to keep my balls on me, thanks.” He taps the cigarette and lets the ashes fall. “Go find yourself some impotents for that shit.”

The twinkle in Mibuchi’s eyes is scheming. He pockets his hands as he turns away. “You know we will.”

 

 

 

The nurses had to be called in a quarter past midnight when Akashi woke up to Nijimura by his side.

Eyes teary in the dim light, Akashi didn't recognize him.

Hysterical, Akashi tore off his IV drip and scratched into Nijimura’s arm, nails sinking in hard enough for him to bleed.

Nijimura held his shoulder down as Akashi weakly wrestled him away, sobbing at him to stop.

 _He’s scared of me,_ Nijimura says blankly, his back against the hallway outside. Inside the room, the nurses sedate him over the constant stream of _please, no, no, I don’t want—_

 _Of course he is,_ Mibuchi says, unsympathetic. _Considering everything alphas have done to him, I’m not surprised he thinks all alphas are the same._

Nijimura glares after Mibuchi as he disappears into the room.

 

 

 

“...Nijimura-san?”

He lifts his eyes from his phone, away from the page detailing different brands of climbing rope and equipment.

It’s the night of the fifth day.

“I’m here,” he answers.

He’s always been here, though the nurses only allowed him in for two hours a day since the incident. Mibuchi’s orders. His “alpha stank” is a terrible trigger apparently.

Nijimura lowers his phone to his lap. “How are you feeling?”

Akashi looks a little better than when they first met. There is more color to him and there’s no remnant of pain or pleasure— just exhaustion. A kid this young shouldn't look so worn.

There’s something very frail and small about seeing him engulfed in the large hospital bed, swallowed up in a light blue hospital gown with tubes snaking from his arms.

“Not particularly well,” Akashi answers, voice dry, and struggles to sit up. Nijimura almost offers him his arm to hold, but he decides against it.

“But better?”

The flash of pain on his face is fleeting, gone as Akashi settles against his pillows with a sagging sigh. His eyes are brighter, more alert, the color like blood rubies. “Better.”

“Good,” Nijimura says, which is the only plausible thing he could say in this moment. Neither of them say anything else, and Nijimura finds that it’s okay. Akashi probably didn’t remember anything from that night. He'd probably preferred if he didn't.

The redhead is busy with looking around the room, fascinated by the yellow wallpaper and sharp contrast with the teal bed sheets. The wall has cartoon animal stickers on it: baby pastel giraffes, elephants, and lions.

Nijimura can’t concentrate on his research anymore. Turning his screen off, he sinks fully into the vibrant blue armchair. “The nurses chose this room for you,” Nijimura says. “Said you’d like it or something.”

“The decor is rather interesting,” Akashi agrees, though there’s a tightness around his eyes. He’s cringing.

“You’re still a kid, it fits,” Nijimura grunts. He doesn’t miss the way Akashi narrows his eyes at that.

“I’m not a kid,” he mumbles.

“You sure were acting like one,” Nijimura says. _Scared of the doctor_ , he almost points out, but— “ _the boy has had terrible things done to him.”_

It’s better to leave sleeping dogs lie.

Nijimura flippantly snags a pamphlet off the bedside desk and frisbees it onto Akashi’s lap. “Choose something and I’ll order it for you. You can’t live off sugared water forever.”

Akashi drops his eyes at the room service menu. His face flares red, but not at whatever’s on the paper. “I’m sorry,” he says slowly, “For all the trouble I’ve caused so far.”

“You aren’t a trouble, so don’t apologize,” Nijimura huffs, leaning back in his chair. Furrowing his brows, Nijimura stares pointedly. “Besides, I’m responsible for you so choose something or I’m gonna order pad thai.”

Akashi looks contemplative as he picks up the menu. “May I have the Tom Kah with tofu?”

 _That’s_ not on the hospital service menu.

“The nurses are going to kick my ass for feeding you that,” Nijimura says, rolling his eyes. But he starts searching for the nearest Thai restaurant on his phone anyways. He could make a round trip there and back within twenty minutes if he drives fast. And he does.

Nijimura stands up and swipes his jacket from his seat. “I’ll be back soon. Any more requests? Last minute orders? I’m only spoiling you this time, so make use of it, kid.”

“...Some tea would be nice too.”

Tea. Hm. That’d balance the oil in his pad thai. Good idea.

He slips his jacket on, zipping it up and checking that he hasn’t dropped his wallet in the creases of the arm chair. “Thai tea?”

“Oolong. Thank you.”

Nijimura snorts, under his breath. “Damn brat is picky as hell.”

Akashi looks down with a slightly red tint on his cheeks. “Sorry…”

The alpha studies him for a while and then taps him lightly on the head with his knuckles. “What did I say about apologizing.”

Akashi opens his mouth, and then bites down the _sorry_ that was sure to come. Nijimura sighs as he leaves.

 

 

 

Akashi has been blowing on the spoon of soup with so much effort and concentration that Nijimura forgets that he has noodles dangling from his mouth.

It’s frustrating to watch him take a tiny sip for every minute he’s exhaling on the steam. Akashi’s eyes are wide, catlike almost, and he has this odd tic with smacking his lips to relish the taste.

_Just eat your damn soup already._

After looking at the time, 7:26pm, Nijimura hastily finishes his dinner and tosses the trash into the plastic take out bag. If the nurses come in, they won’t give him _too much_ grief when they find Akashi slurping soup. Nijimura could just say Akashi forced him to buy it for him. (He doubts they’d believe him though.)

Nijimura scoots his folded chair closer to the bed, enough so he could rest his elbows on the empty space.

He’s surprised by how much room there is (or how little Akashi takes up.)

“You’re taking a hell of a long time. It’s that good, huh?”

Akashi looks up, surprised. His hand is cupping the side of the styrofoam bowl. “It’s hot.” His lips are a little glossy. “But it is delicious, thank you.”

 _Polite_ , Nijimura thinks and he takes a napkin and puts it atop the bed tray, next to Akashi’s hand. _But still a brat._

 

 

 

Dinner eaten and cleaned up, incriminating evidence stashed away in plastic bags and stowed in the trash, they end up watching several episodes of a crime drama.

Nijimura likes to nitpick at action scenes, Akashi realizes. For some reason, he’s offended by the trope of walking away from explosions, back turned. Akashi wonders if it’s because he’s yakuza (theory, still unconfirmed) or just likes to criticize TV drama budgets.

Akashi doesn’t say anything though, just keeps his back straight against the mound of pillows and marvels at everything he could look at.

He inspects the mellow glow of the pastel animal wall stickers, the graininess of the screen mounted near the ceiling. He listens intently to the quiet murmurs in the hallway outside mixing with the tv audio escaping the arms of his hospital bed.

Akashi steals a glance at the alpha next to him. When they first met, he had been pulled under a drugged fog, only registering Nijimura’s strong and earthy scents. His first impression of the alpha satisfied his omega genes, but only just that.

Now that he has most of his wits returned to him, Akashi studies him while he’s enraptured with the show.

Nijimura is strikingly out of place in the hospital room of bright and cheerful colors; he wears nothing but grayscale, with some of the fabric thinning near his elbows of his athletic jersey. The deep eye bags and creases under his eyes make him look older, probably, late twenties to thirties if Akashi had to guess. He has a prominent upper lip, sharp but lazy stare, and black hair that’s mussed from the wind.

He’s not a traditionally attractive or handsome man; he’s intimidating, if anything, with the way his face is set into a scowl, his eyebrows furrowed in perpetual irritation.

But this was the alpha who purchased him; Akashi would have to learn how to adjust to survive.

Akashi recalls the day of leaving the hotel in a blur of events— of conveyor belt sushi, criss-crossing streets, and the warm steam from a bath.

Some unremembered days later, Akashi wakes up in too teal sheets with an IV drip in his arm.

_Why?_

Nijimura had every opportunity to grab Akashi by the arm and do anything to him. He was weak; he was alluring.

Akashi was an omega in heat in the alpha’s own home. Most alphas would have (and have) enjoyed wringing him dry, pulling at him until he tore. But Nijimura didn’t.

Akashi would have dismissed the concern by believing Nijimura was a lackey of some sort, but there’s something jarring about Akashi being _here_ , in the medical center, of all places.

Akashi was in his prime mating condition; Nijimura should have turned him over to the new alpha at the first signs of his heat. Not put him in a medical center that undid everything the institution has drugged him for.

A nauseating realization washes over him as his previous theory is overturned.

Nijimura _is_ his owner.

A different type of alpha.

One that enjoyed power play. The kindness, the care— it could all be part of a larger and sicker game. In which they'll play as predator-prey where the alpha takes pleasure in watching the omega desperately chase an oasis in the desert.

Whatever Nijimura has planned, he’ll plan to do it after Akashi’s discharged.

Maybe, Akashi can run before that happens. He can ask the center for help—

Akashi’s thoughts are interrupted when a nurse knocks sharply on his door. She gives Nijimura a curt nod and the alpha stretches his legs. Right on cue, the show fades into a commercial.

“I’m gonna go,” Nijimura says, standing up. Akashi resists a breath of relief.

“Thank you for visiting,” Akashi says politely, watching him as he picks up his backpack and the plastic bag of trash from the floor.

“Ah, right, before I go.”

Akashi pauses, warily watching the knuckles in his hands flex as Nijimura pulls his bag apart by the zippers. It makes a quick, ripping sound.

“I bought this, just for you—”

Akashi’s breath catches in his throat; _Pretty, isn’t it?_

“But you’re gonna have to hide it from the nurses before you’re discharged.”

Akashi does not look at what’s in his hand, but it’s held in front of him.

He’s _not_ there; he’s not there anymore.

_He doesn’t answer, he shuts his eyes against the warm sunlight peering through the tall window panes, ignores the thrum under his skin, the electricity running through his muscles—_

“Take it.”

Akashi releases a short breath, steeling himself. When he looks, he sees a black rectangular box in Nijimura's hand.

Akashi takes a moment to study it before he hesitantly takes it, opening it.

Nijimura says, “It’s a taser.”

It’s a taser.

Not some sick toy, not a collar adorned with pearls, but a taser.

Akashi looks up at him, trying to glean _why_ from Nijimura’s face. All he receives is a casual air and his impassive expression.

Nijimura might as well be giving him a book to pass the time, not _this_.

Nijimura doesn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. He just reaches over to pluck the taser from its cushioned bedding, flicks a switch, and presses a button.

Akashi jumps back at the loud crackle and sharp beam of light hitting the ceiling.

“One quick burst is enough to stun someone my size. Press a bit longer and they won’t be able to move for fifteen minutes. That’ll give you enough time to get away.”

He maneuvers his hand so that Akashi can see the side of the taser. “There’s a safety switch here, so it doesn’t accidentally go off unless you mean it to.”

Nijimura lifts up a small band, tugging on it with his index and thumb.

“Put this band around your wrist before you use it. If anyone tries to take it from you, the pin will slip out and the taser won’t work.”

His tone is bland as if he’s reciting an airplane safety guide. He might as well be reciting an airplane safety guide, what with the way he sighs like it's a chore.

Akashi stares at him as Nijimura dutifully turns it off and slips it back into its carrying case. He drops it onto Akashi’s lap. The weight of it and its potential is frightening. “It’s yours.”

Nijimura is watching him, void of any expression, oblivious to how confused Akashi is with this _thing_ on his lap. Or, maybe he _does_ know.  

Maybe it’s a trick.

He’s taunting him with the illusion of self-defense. The alpha will take it from under his nose when Akashi reaches for it, press the button and—

“It’s yours,” Nijimura repeats, mouth twisting into the familiar growl. He zips up his bag and throws it over his shoulder carelessly.

He puts several steps between them, but Akashi feels just as tense, still confused.

“You can do whatever you want with it. Even shock me in my sleep.” He pauses, his face twisting at the thought. "You can shock me again before I snap your neck in half for doing it in the first place.”

Nijimura reaches out his hand—Akashi flinches— but the alpha clenches his hand and lets his arm fall back to his side.

“...If anyone forces themselves on you, use it.” Nijimura holds his gaze, and then drops it. He strides to the door.

“ _And_ , don’t forget to hide it under your pillow. That thing was fucking expensive.”

Now that Nijimura is nearly half-a-room away, Akashi picks up the case, inspecting the smooth, sturdy leather. He opens the lid and lets his fingers run down the course plastic.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, kid.”

The taser is heavy in his hand, it feels deadly. It _is_ deadly. It’s Nijimura’s idea of a get-well gift instead of a bouquet of flowers.

Oddly, it’s more comforting than flowers. And in any other circumstance, Akashi might even prefer this over a bouquet.

But his doubts just sink deeper, stirring his stomach and he feels like he’ll retch the little soup he’s eaten.

“Good night,” Akashi mumbles, words numb in his mouth as Nijimura slips out the door.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **chapter warnings:** unpleasant flashback/trauma
> 
> \--
> 
> Hello, uh. I accidentally posted this to the wrong fic, oh goodness me. Anyways, it's been rough the last few months so I haven't been writing at all. I'll post what I have and leave it till inspiration strikes once again. Please have this small offering in the mean time.

“The suppressant is countering your withdrawals rather nicely,” Mibuchi says as he pulls off his latex gloves. Akashi tries to ignore the sheen on the tips of his gloved fingers.

The doctor moves to the counter nearby, picking up his clipboard. “Is there anything else you’d like to mention? Any pain you’d like me to know about?”

Akashi’s been examined before, but this feels too real, more awkward, now that he isn’t numbed with syringe-worths of drugs flowing rampant in his veins. He lets the sterile air of the room cool his heating cheeks as he scrambles to sit up.

Akashi pulls his hospital gown to cover his thighs, further wrinkling the paper sheets on the examination chair.

“...Nijimura-san gave me a taser,” Akashi eventually says, only because the secret bore down on him like a burden. He needs someone to know, someone to proffer their opinion.

Mibuchi raises a brow, midway of scratching some notes on his clipboard.

The doctor sighs something secretive and knowing. “Of course he would.”

Akashi turns the implications over in his head.

“Do me a favor and whip him into shape,” Mibuchi says as he starts tossing away bits of paper on the counter. He runs his hands through his black locks, tucking it behind his ears. “God knows I’d take the chance, even if he isn’t doing anything in particular.”

At Akashi’s questioning stare, Mibuchi laughs. “I mean, could you imagine his face? He already looks like someone socked him in the jaw; it’ll be worse than it usually is. I’d pay to see it.”

Akashi remembers the way Nijimura’s expression twisted into a grimace and he smiles, if only a little.

“Probably.”

 

 

 

The next two days, Nijimura comes to him bearing gifts— or clothes actually. By the end of his two hour visiting period, Nijimura takes most of them back, stuffing everything carelessly into a plastic bag, unfolded and crumpled.

Trial and error until he somehow gets Akashi’s size right.

Akashi doesn’t say anything about the wrinkled shirts he brings, or the strange slogan motif that somehow pulls the entire mess of a wardrobe together. He just wordlessly wears the shirts over his hospital gown, too small the first time, too big the next.

Midway of staring long and hard at the bright yellow shirt with a duck face staring back, Akashi wonders, _This is his, isn’t it._

“It’s my brother’s— or was going to be my brother’s,” Nijimura explains with a half shrug. “They didn’t let me visit that one time, so I was gonna toss it actually.”

The shirt is a little big for Akashi to wear, but the sentiment makes him reconsider. _Nijimura-san has a brother._

Akashi folds it up again and places it on the _to keep_ pile, where it half-covers the leather case for the taser.

Nijimura notices and looks ridiculously happy.

“We can match,” he says, lips twisting into a semblance of a strange half-smile. It’s the first time Akashi’s seen him not frown. “I have one too.”

 _Of course, he does_ , Akashi thinks as Nijimura piles more hand-me-downs on his hospital bed with renewed vigor.

Nijimura holds up shirts—  

(“That says _chicken nugget_ in English, Nijimura-san.”

“I know and that’s exactly what you are, you chicken nugget.”)

— and Akashi shakes his head to them. By the end of it, Nijimura picks up the pile of clothes Akashi has chosen and disappears off with them before the nurses could scold him for overstaying.

 

 

 

Idle, intruding thoughts and a desire to _know_ make Akashi stare holes into Mibuchi’s back as the other ambles about his hospital room, checking that all equipment is in order and that the IV bag has been changed.

Mibuchi didn’t exactly say anything about the taser during his exam. Aside from a casual request to shock Nijimura for laughs and giggles.

Akashi expected he’d have a more bewildered reaction.

“Tell me what you’re thinking, Sei-chan,” Mibuchi prompts after he’s done.

He has other patients to attend to, Akashi is sure, but the doctor makes himself comfortable on the armchair, crossing his legs with ease.

“You’re worried about something.”

“It’s… about Nijimura-san,” Akashi says slowly. To say worried is an understatement.

Despite Nijimura’s nonchalance and consideration, if one can even think him bringing clothes as consideration, there’s something about the alpha that doesn’t feel right.

He doesn’t feel— safe. Akashi can’t shake his mind’s whispers that it’s all pretense. A mask over his true nature.

For the disgruntled face he puts on, Nijimura has a dark undercurrent to him. Akashi’s instincts scream at him to get away while he still can.

Before Nijimura could hurt him, with a pain far worse than he’s been accustomed to.

“May I ask what you know about him?” Akashi asks, voice quiet. Mibuchi looks unsurprised, like he knew Akashi would spring the question sooner or later.

“He’s a famous character; mostly for his sour face,” Mibuchi replies with a disarming smile; it thinly disguises contempt. He’s not trying to hide it.

“He’s rather… respected in his line of work; pretty good at what he does, so I’ve heard. But I’ve only met him recently actually. I was called to a hotel for a consultation, and first met him there—”

Come to think of it, what _was_ Nijimura doing at the venue where omega auctions were taking place?

“It seems that he only frequents hotels for business,” Mibuchi says, reading his mind. Akashi blinks up at him. “And since you’re already asking, he’s been to such events before, and no, you weren’t part of his gig the night he bought you.”

 _You’re an exception_ , Mibuchi’s eyes seem to say. The doctor drops his gaze and shrugs, glancing out the window and sighing dramatically.

“As far as most alphas are, he’s the furthest from a typical alpha you can get.”

Mibuchi gives Akashi a passing glance, something warm and familiar, before it changes into something sinister. A chill rises in Akashi’s body. “Makes me want to dig under his skin and see what’s there.”

The moment passes as Mibuchi seems to realize that Akashi is still there, unmoving. He tilts his head and smiles, the front row of his teeth are straight; his warm visage seems plastic.

“Sei-chan, if you feel like you’re in danger, you’re always welcome to come here. I’ll personally take care of you.”

“I… appreciate it,” Akashi says carefully, filing the information away along with the odd chill he felt earlier. Mibuchi’s answers, vague as they were, helps a little with easing the weight and doubts from his chest.

“You should still be careful however,” Mibuchi advises, the earlier warmth in his eyes replaced by something colder. Akashi’s breath stutters. “No matter what, he’s an alpha and you’re an omega. It’s important to keep that in mind, for your safety’s sake.”

Akashi swallows.

It isn’t that he’s forgotten.

It’s the harsh truth that he’s come to embrace, pounded into him relentlessly since he was taken away.

He looks down at his hands and then at the case he has tucked underneath his blankets. The taser Nijimura’s given to him feels different in his hand somehow.

_One quick burst is enough to stun someone my size._

His grip loosens on the bed sheets.

_You can do whatever you want with it. Even shock me in my sleep._

Nijimura had already known about the differences in their biology and strength.

“He gave you that as an insurance,” Mibuchi announces, just as Akashi arrives to the same conclusion. There’s a knowing look in his eyes as he unfolds his legs and stands up. “That Nijimura… he takes things too seriously, too far sometimes. I suppose that’s something redeeming about the mutt.”

His white lab coat is remarkably unwrinkled and he takes the clipboard with him. “I’ll be going now, Sei-chan. Please rest for the night and let the nurses know if anything comes up.”

“Thank you, Mibuchi-sensei.” Akashi bows his head. He leans back into the pillows, hand resting on the case of his taser.

 

 

 

Akashi isn’t a stranger to this feeling— of danger leering at him from every corner, at every angle. In school, classmates had darker motives. With his father, relationships were forged for business.

He was born with the Akashi name. Life is but a game to be played strategically to ensure success.

Being raised under the iron will of his father, Akashi is more than accustomed to sharpening his own blades, of words and manipulation, so that he’d overthrow his father for control of the family conglomerate.

Akashi’s presence had once been likened to a lion; regal, yet merciless.

All that has crumbled to dust, and Akashi is stripped bare of his power, reduced into nothing but an omega. A disgusting, emaciated thing walking into a den of lions, with nothing but luck and mercy on his side.

 

 

 

Akashi is discharged after another week when Mibuchi confirms (with much reluctance) that he’s healthy enough to go. His movements are sluggish and sometimes he stumbles, but Akashi leaves refreshed, mind cleared, and with a body he thinks he can actually call his own.

He leaves the hospital in basketball shorts and a duck shirt, much to Mibuchi’s dismay.

Nijimura adds on an emerald jacket since its cold, and it enhances the vibrancy of it all. Red, green, yellow; Akashi looks like a walking traffic light.

“At least you won’t get hit by a car at this time of day,” Nijimura says at the street curb. Then, Nijimura offers his arm as they wait for the light to turn at the intersection.

Akashi eyes it warily.

He’s not a child that needs help crossing the street but he has been struggling to find his balance; Nijimura noticed.

It’s probably his way of respecting Akashi’s space, if the taser Akashi keeps in his pocket is also anything to go by. And if Akashi ignores him enough, Nijimura might drop his arm and not insist like the day they left the hotel.

But, Akashi puts his hand around the bend of Nijimura’s arm hesitantly, curling his fingers and resting his weight.

The way Nijimura lets out a soft exhale almost feels like an acknowledgement of Akashi’s leap of faith.

If Nijimura noticed, he doesn’t comment on the burn on Akashi’s cheeks. Instead, the alpha’s expression is set at default (pout), and he keeps his eyes fixed on the walking man lit on the box below the lights, as if he was used to people clinging onto him while crossing the street.

Nijimura’s pace isn’t too fast that Akashi can’t keep up with, and he slows down when Akashi trips on his feet.

They’re walking somewhere, presumably to Nijimura’s car, because—“Hospital parking is a bitch; fuck parking validations. It’s 1200 yen, I don’t have that kind of money.”

Which, Akashi points out neutrally, “You could afford 200 million and the hospital bill, but not street parking.”

Akashi is starting to familiarize with the annoyed look Nijimura gives him.

“Kid, when you have a car and realize you have to pay for hospital parking of all things, you’re gonna realize you could’ve spent that 1200 on something better. Like food or invest it in a kotatsu,” he replies, upper lip jutting out the way it always does when he’s irritated. Which happens very often.

They stumble around a residential neighborhood while Nijimura tries to remember where he’s parked. And while they wander, Akashi’s thankful that the streets are empty on a Tuesday mid-morning. After all, he’s not sure if he could stomach the public shame of being old enough but still having to cling onto someone.

There’s something strangely intimate about this though.

Nijimura lets Akashi rest on him. He doesn’t hold him, he doesn’t lock him in place. Akashi could let go if he wanted to.

But he doesn’t. Instead, Akashi savors the warmth, and lets himself get led along, until a white sedan beeps in response to Nijimura’s key fob.

Then, he lets go.

 

 

 

Nijimura lays everything out for him once they’re seated and he’s driving down the freeway with his foot pressed on the gas.

Since Akashi’s feeling better, he needs actual clothes. And when Nijimura says _actual clothes_ , Akashi thought they’d go to a mall or a plaza lined with different name brand stores.

Instead, Nijimura takes him to an unassuming office building, up nine floors, through endless and twisting hallways, before a freight door opens up to a studio inside with overhanging lights and a lack of walls.

“Momoi’s an independent designer and seamstress. She’s the one responsible for dressing me for work,” Nijimura says as he nudges Akashi through the fire-escape door and past the empty clothing racks and naked mannequins. His hand lingers just a touch away from the small of Akashi’s back.

“Gym clothes?” Akashi asks, quirking an inquisitive brow. What kind of work does Nijimura do that has him wearing gym clothes from an indie designer?

“They’re comfortable and durable, y’know,” he says pointedly before looking up at the sound of heels clacking rapidly on the smooth tiles.

“Nijimura-senpai, you should’ve told me you were coming from the back door, I was waiting at the front for you,” she huffs, with a cheek puffed out.  

The woman is smartly dressed with a black pencil skirt and white blouse that adorns her chest modestly with an elegant ruffle. Pink haired, bright and cheerful eyes. She smells of vibrant floral and citrus, and nothing else. A beta.

A comforting scent, Akashi eases a little.

“Sorry, sorry, you know I can’t bring him through the entrance,” Nijimura sighs, scratching the back of his head.

He pats Akashi several times on the head; his hand is a heavy weight. “This kid’s rich.”

Akashi opens his mouth to correct him that _he has no money_ , but the designer appraises him with a stern look, frowning.

Predictably: “Nijimura-senpai, your ugly jacket makes him look like a Christmas tree.”

“And that’s why he’s here, all right? Now, shoo. Ping me when you kids are done playing dress up.”

Nijimura does the accompanying hand gesture as he walks off somewhere, obviously well acquainted with the lay of the studio.

Momoi Satsuki, as she reintroduces herself, leads Akashi to a closed space, strewn with fabrics, sketchbooks, and measuring tape.

Her first request: take off the ugly jacket.

Akashi is more than happy to oblige.

“I’ve always wondered what kind of plus-one Nijimura-senpai would bring,” she says conversationally, with a smile in her eyes as she ties her hair into a ponytail. “Everyone usually requests an evening gown or suit, but this is my first time pulling together a whole wardrobe.”

Everyone? Akashi blinks as she wheels out a clothing rack of muted colors.

“Classy, but subdued. We’ll start with plain colors and throw in character next,” she explains, pulling out a tan, oxford button-down and black slacks. She fetches an accompanying royal navy cardigan and brings it to him. “What do you think?”

He runs his thumb over the sleeve of the cardigan; Akashi hardly paid any attention to the clothes his maids chose for him, but the material was familiar, nostalgic even. He smiles faintly. “It’s not bad. I used to wear something similar. You have an eye for this.”

“Of course!” She pushes it into his arms, gleeful, and directs him to a changing room. “Try it on, see how it feels!”

When Akashi emerges, he finds that the clothes are snug and miraculously, form-fitting. In past experiences, Akashi always had his clothes tailored to fit after they arrived to him. It would take several days until he had something that wasn’t tight or loose in odd places.

Momoi is visibly pleased and she’s already heaping more clothes in her arms; white trousers, a swedish sweater, plain black button-up. He would ask her how she somehow knew his exact measurements.

But she’s too busy wondering which bowtie he should wear (he won’t) to match his attire.

Akashi thinks he should ask again but he notes a disarray of clothes piled on her desk; the one sitting on the top of the stack catches his attention.

 _Chicken nugget_ is scrawled in bold print on the front.

 

 

 

“Not bad, obocchan,” Nijimura says, lips puckering to a silent whistle as he studies Akashi’s cotton tweed jacket over his button up shirt.

Akashi twitches just a little at the nickname. He’s always disdained it; the name being a playground insult that rubbed his nerves the wrong way. The way Nijimura says it though doesn’t make it sound any better than _kid_ or _brat._

Momoi hands Nijimura a bag of folded clothes. There’s about five shirts, six pants, and three cardigans and jackets in there for Akashi to wear. (Along with several shoes for different occasions, and enough black briefs. Akashi doesn’t even want to ask _how_ she knew.)

“About your suit the other day, what happened to the buttons of your jacket, senpai? This is the fifth time I had to mend it, and I can’t keep buying replacements.”

“You don’t need to fix it if it ain’t any use,” Nijimura says unrepentantly, taking the bag and tossing it over his shoulder. He beckons Akashi over with a tilt of his head. “Just add the bill to the button costs or whatever, I’ll pay it the next time I come in.”

“Please don’t come back with your clothes ruined _again._ It’s barely been two weeks.” She sounds exasperated. Akashi gives her a quiet nod of thanks before he catches up to Nijimura’s brisk walk to the emergency exit.

Nijimura pushes down on the bar handle and it makes a clunking sound. “Not making any promises.”

 

 

 

“American or Italian?” Nijimura asks, hand on the wheel, eyes on the road. Their car purrs behind a few others at an intersection and Akashi has an inkling his decision would determine whether they go left or right.

“Italian,” Akashi says after a moment’s thought. His finger idly traces his shirt cuffs. He can’t help but feel conscious of the chafe of cloth around his wrist. It feels like _something else,_ and he rubs his fingers around the joint, just to make sure it wasn’t.

“Good choice. Kinda feeling stroganoff,” Nijimura agrees and turns left.

 

 

 

Akashi catches sight of a waiter pouring red wine into the glass for the patrons sitting in the table next to them.

It’s the way how the man does it that draws Akashi’s attention; glass held low, bottle clutched high, with a twirling band of velvet connecting them.

_Magenta red; he feels the thread of wine spin on the crown of his head; his hair drips as the sheets underneath him turn burgundy._

He turns his eyes back to his food.

Lasagna bolognese, a classic in almost every Italian restaurant. It breaks apart easily and caves under the gentle pressure of his fork.

Underneath the table, Nijimura accidentally brushes his knees against his. There’s a grunt, _sorry_ , and Akashi somehow manages a demure smile in response.

_A forceful hand tightens around his chin; his lips are met with a bottle and he drinks, and drinks. It’s removed with a wet pop._

The cheese spins underneath the metal; white and oozing. It drips from the prongs.

_Come on, lick it clean. He laughs, as Akashi closes his eyes, mouthing against something wet and hot. His stomach burns._

Nijimura is saying something. Akashi’s chest hardens into stone; his stomach drops a few degrees colder. The glass of water in front of him shifts, minutely, in his vision.   

“Akashi.”

It isn’t a question, but Akashi opens his eyes again, breathes in sharply. “Yes?”

It’s Nijimura-san.

He sits in front of him eating his chicken alfredo since they ran out of stroganoff. His fork has stabbed into several pieces of penne; the alfredo is thick.

“You doing all right.” The faintest lilt of a question; it comes out sounding like a demand.

“I,” Akashi’s breath catches. He places his fork gently against his plate, thinking it might make a difference, demonstrate that he isn’t as dizzy as he feels. “Yes.”

_Tastes delicious, doesn’t it, Seijuurou-kun?_

Nijimura watches him, his leisure gaze turning sharp and a touch doubtful. “It’s fine if you’re not.”

_You like pleasing your master, don’t you?_

“Yes,” he says in a quiet rush of breath.

A hand on his wrist.

_A suffocating weight on his wrists, leaving a band of black and purple._

Akashi jerks back, looking at Nijimura with wide-eyed surprise. He’s met with the same expression, though it’s quickly replaced with something unreadable.

The moment lasts for a while as they stare at each other. _I’m sorry_ , sits on the tip of Akashi’s tongue, but he can’t speak. His throat is tight.

Nijimura sits back, chair screeching. He has a hand up and waves down a waiter. “We’ll take these to go.”

 

 

 

1930’s American, sotto voice and vintage trio harmony, muted with a faint crackle of audio artifacts.

Nijimura fills the silence during the drive with old-fashioned jazz from a different country. The crooning and melancholic tunes accompany the high-pitched trill from a clarinet.

Breathe, Akashi thinks, his idle mind whirring to catch the English that he recognizes.

Bits and pieces.

_The tip of a leather shoe presses between his legs with a blunt pressure. Akashi concentrates on the jazz playing from a jukebox in the study._

Breathe.

 

 

 

Three paces ahead, moving forward, never looking back, Nijimura is assured that Akashi is following him. Which of course, he is, there’s nowhere else he can go.

They climb the stone steps to the second floor, the noise of the store downstairs fades, only to be replaced by the rustle of plastic bags— takeout and Akashi’s clothes— both held under Nijimura’s grip.

Nijimura fishes a key from his pocket, and opens the door. They are greeted by a stilted, warm air that smells faintly of coffee. He proceeds to open all his windows and put their lunch in the fridge. Akashi feels terrible for cutting their restaurant experience short, but Nijimura says nothing about it.

They sit on the couch for a long time for the rest of the afternoon; the TV is turned on to a channel doing reruns.

The soap drama goes in one ear and out the other with Akashi sitting upright, tense, and an entire couch away from the alpha next to him.

It’s only during the commercials when Nijimura rouses his attention by clearing his voice. “Where’s your taser?”

Akashi blinks, recalling how Nijimura said it was expensive. He produces the case from his pocket.

Nijimura, strangely, looks put off and annoyed at it in his hand. “What good is it gonna be if you keep it in there?”

Akashi blinks, and eloquently replies, “Eh?”

With a frustrated sigh, Nijimura almost reaches for it, but Akashi reflexively tenses.

The alpha catches himself, and then carefully draws back, as if he was just adjusting in his seat. He clears his voice again. “Take it out and get a good feel of it.”

Akashi does that, remembering the bit where Nijimura told him about wearing the strap on his wrist.

It’s snug and fits well, the grip is made of textured rubber. He finds the safety switch above the discharge button.

He glances up at Nijimura, who is lounging his arm against the back of the couch. “Go on,” Nijimura presses.

Akashi flips the safety switch, and pushes the button. It crackles a bright blue color and the loud snap of electricity shakes him; he lets it go just as quickly.

There’s some resistance to the button, Akashi notes. It requires a purposeful weight.

Nijimura hums approvingly. “Try it again, but keep it on for longer than five seconds.”

Akashi pushes down on the button. He finds that he’s less afraid the second time around. Akashi is rewarded with a deep inhale and Nijimura reaching an arm out, palm down.

Akashi lifts his eyes at him, confused.

It’s that same face, a contorted grimace.

Realization hits him just as Nijimura says with a drag of effort.

“Now, shock me.”

 

 

 

Three seconds.

Nijimura stumbles back, off the couch, hits his head against the coffee table during his descent to the ground. He’s curled in on himself, nursing his hand by pressing it hard with the other. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ That fucking hurt, shit—”

Akashi stares after him, wide-eyed. He doesn’t dare move, but  he does have the decency to blurt, “Are you all right?”

“What do you fucking think, it hurts _like a fucking bitch_.”

Akashi says nothing to that.

It takes a while after a string of curses for Nijimura to stagger back to composure. His elbow digs into the couch when he sits up, and Akashi is still frozen, hand on the taser and eyes wide. Waiting.

“So,” Nijimura says, voice coarse. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing his bangs back over his forehead. “That’s how it works. Any other questions?”

Akashi still doesn’t move.

He’s holding his breath, trembling in anticipation for _something_ else to happen. For something to break the obvious calm in Nijimura’s voice, like a sudden lunge and a crushing weight on him, pressing him into the couch, an unrelenting grip on his throat.

_You can shock me again before I snap your neck in half—_

His fingers tighten around the taser. Nijimura frowns.

“You’re still scared of me.”

“I’m not.”

Nijimura isn’t happy with that answer, because he stands from the floor, holding his arms in front of him, a show of hands.

“You think I’m gonna hurt you ‘cus you used it on me,” he says, or lectures. Akashi flinches at how easily Nijimura figured that out. “And I’ll be honest, it _fucking_ hurts, but I asked for it.”

He takes a step back and drops back to the couch. Nijimura watches him for a moment, the hard lines of his features softening with a soft sigh.

“Akashi, it’s probably not in your nature to hurt anyone, but you need to know how to use it.” His hand rubs at the spot on his forearm where there’s a red bloom from the contact. Nijimura stifles a wince. “You have to understand that it’s yours. I’m not gonna take it from you for whatever reason.”

Akashi feels his shoulders relaxing, but he notices the way Nijimura pauses, eyes flitting to the side with a new thought.

“If I actually _do_ try to take it from you, you need to do what you just did.” A fleeting look crosses his face— something is suddenly _different_. “And run.”

“The store downstairs is always open; I’ve already told the shopkeepers about it, so if you go to them, they’re gonna take you to someone who’ll protect you,” Nijimura continues, effortlessly sliding back to his normal, bland demeanor. He glances at Akashi, reassuring. Lets out a pitying laugh. “He’s a muscle maniac and he’d use any excuse to put me into the ground.”

“Why?” Akashi asks before he can think any better. The alpha is genuinely confused by the nature of his question. “Why are you doing this?”

_Why are you being so kind?_

“Because if I don’t, we’re not gonna get along, now are we?”

Akashi doesn’t expect that answer or the ease in which Nijimura says it.

He had prepared himself to hear something like being too expensive to break, like a rare jewel that needs to be kept safely in a box. (Or worse, Akashi waits for the admission that he was never Nijimura’s to ruin in the first place, and his fear that _I’m not there_ but _I will be_ hangs quietly near the shell of his ear.)

“So keep that taser on you, but make sure the safety switch is on. Don’t want you shocking yourself accidentally, ‘cus it fucking hurts, yeah?”

Akashi nods numbly.

Nijimura makes sense; they wouldn’t be able to live together if he was in constant fear (not fear, his pride would protest) of the alpha.

Another thought drops into his head.

_So, why was he bought in the first place?_

Akashi doesn’t register the fact that the alpha has kicked himself off the couch to rummage in the fridge. “I’m gonna microwave lunch, do you want to eat too?”

He snaps out from his thoughts. “Yes, please.”

 

 

 

It’s piping hot and Akashi’s stomach rumbles.

Reheated food never tastes anything like the original, but Akashi has learned not to be picky. Doesn’t expect more, or anything at all.

The takeout box sits warm on his lap, Nijimura’s already tossed his empty box to the coffee table in front of him. He’s drinking a bottle of pocari. His adam’s apple bobs with each gulp.

Then.

“You’re staring holes into me; what do you want, kid.”

Akashi drops his eyes quickly, the plastic fork slips back under the lasagna. “Nijimura-san,” he says. “I have a question.”

“Ask.”

He struggles with his words. “Do you… do you not have any plans for me?”

The alpha considers him for a while, swishing the remainder of his drink in the near-empty bottle.

“None so far. Do you have something you wanna do? Somewhere to go? I’m busy, but I’ll see what I can do.”

Akashi frowns. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Then what did you mean?” It’s hard to know if Nijimura is being exasperating by having Akashi spell out _exactly_ what he means, or if he’s just oblivious. Akashi somehow thinks its the latter.

“The first alpha who bought… bought me,” Akashi starts, stuttering just the slightest. He no longer feels hungry despite the inviting warmth of his meal on his lap. “—did things to me.”

He is proud his voice doesn’t waver.

Nijimura lets out a short sigh. “I don’t get sick pleasure from tying you up or hurting you like that. End of discussion, brat.”

Akashi looks at him with an unforgivingly blank gaze. Nijimura’s brow twitches.

“ _What_ ? If you wanna ask, ask clearly. I’m not gonna get mad just ‘cus you’re curious.” Akashi hears him mutter a _curious brat_ under his breath as he drinks from the bottle again.

“...Will you not engage in sexual activities with me?”

Nijimura chokes. “That’s—” The color flaring on his cheeks is a rare expression on the alpha. Akashi is somewhat fascinated by the shade of it. “Fuck no.”

“Why?”

Nijimura glares at him, the familiar scowl making its way on his face. His entire nape is flushed and it dusts the tip of his ears. “Can you stop asking why, why, _why_. It’s annoying and I’m gonna slug you.”

Akashi parts his mouth, but Nijimura beats him to it. “Just to let you know, I’m _not_ gonna punch you, I’m just saying. It’s just—” Nijimura sighs, deflating. He growls. “It’s ‘cus you’re a kid and kids don’t need to know about these things.”

Yet they both know what Akashi’s been drugged and trained to do for the past years. It sits quietly in the air between them, unspoken. Awkward. Akashi feels— restless, for a lack of a better emotion.

Nijimura reaches for the remote and clicks to another channel. “Now stop thinking stupid things, finish your food.”

Akashi lowers his eyes back to his lasagna. “Yes, Nijimura-san.”

 

 

 

“I usually keep stuff in here,” Nijimura says and he pushes the door aside. Akashi is greeted by the sight of a futon, a small table, and a closet. There’s a slim window that’s open for the evening breeze. “But while you were in the hospital, I cleaned up some. Got you a futon and everything too.”

Said futon was laid out on the floor, taking up most of the space. The coffee table is perched on its side.

“If you need the table, you can roll the futon up and bring it down this way,” Nijimura explains, toeing it with his socked foot.

Akashi spots his bag of clothes sitting near the door. He gazes around as he shuffles on the free space there was on the floor. “It’s not the biggest room in the world, but, it’s yours.”

His.

A small room that Akashi would have considered his walk-in closet when he lived at the Akashi estate. But despite the size, it feels a lot cozier, less suffocating than his original room that held a queen-sized bed.

Akashi kneels to test the cushion of the futon. He’s surprised to find that he can’t feel the floorboard under his weight. It’s no different from sleeping on a bed.

Nijimura couldn’t offer him a larger room, but he didn’t hold back on quality.

“Like it?” Nijimura asks.

“...I do.” Akashi feels the tips of his ears burn. “Thank you, Nijimura-san.”

Nijimura touches the top of his head for the briefest of moments, and not-frowns.

Akashi thinks he could get used to seeing it.


End file.
